


We Should Be Through (but you keep me holding on)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 30 Day Angst Challenge, Andrea's potty mouth, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuckbuddies, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infidelity, Interconnected oneshots, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mention of blood, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unwanted sexual attraction, mention of suicide, sexual identity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-14 07:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 24,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16488569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: Andrea is just one more addition on the long list of Pippo’s unhealthy life choices.





	1. Mysterious Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> You give me an angst list and expect me not to go for it? Think again!
> 
> I have no plan whatsoever, I'll just be filling the prompts as they come around. Will mostly be set during their time at Milan, but I can and probably will make some detours to other time periods too. Will be updating tags as we go.

Pippo’s body is a map of bruises, ones that keep appearing and reappearing in the most bizarre of places.

These bruises are the types one would never bother to look for – the thought wouldn’t even cross one’s mind, probably – unless one happens to be named Andrea Pirlo and therefore is cursed with the ability of seeing all the tiny details without even trying to.

There are the more obvious bruises too, the more easily explainable, like the burned skin on Pippo’s back after he stays too long under the scalding hot shower. Pippo claims heater malfunction. Andrea knows better.

There’s also the usual purple and red and yellow bruises from training too hard, too intensely; no one questions Pippo if those appear more frequently on him than most.

Those bruises are out there for everyone to see, and no one asks two questions about them.

What raises more questions are the marks Andrea finds when it’s just the two of them. Tiny cuts on the insides of Pippo’s thighs, too high up his legs to be exposed by his shorts. Half-healed burn marks on his legs, usually covered by shin guards, that look suspiciously like they were made by cigarette butts. Broken skin on the insides of his elbows and backs of his knees, causes by compulsive scratching.

There are questions meant for all these bruises, but Andrea never asks, he only kisses the slowly healing skin and pretends he sees nothing, while Pippo pretends he the same.

Come next time, the burns will be blistering with new vehemence and the cuts will have been reopened before the skin has a chance to heal properly.

Andrea will think all the same questions without uttering a word, because it’s not his place: he’s just one more addition on the long list of Pippo’s unhealthy life choices.

After they’re done, Pippo will proudly carry a new set of bruises courtesy of Andrea, these ones littering his chest and abdomen, stopping him to from taking off his jersey during the upcoming matches.

They both know that one day Andrea _will_ bring it up. He will tell Pippo he’s there, if he ever needs someone who will listen. He will tell there’s a better way to control his life. He will touch the bruises, with intention and awareness, not willing to pretend any longer.

And once that happens, there will not be ‘them’ anymore, because Pippo only holds on to bad habits he is able to control.


	2. Argument

AC Milan is one big family, or so everybody keeps saying. And every family has its issues.

It’s an everyday occurrence in Milanello for the players to have a scuffle or fifteen – more often than not, this includes Rino and forks, but the others do have their days too – but these things always blow over rather sooner than later, and the first team will go back to their good-natured bickering and brotherly displays of casual affection.

Looking in from the outside circle, it’s probably Rino and his regular attempts to murder when Andrea, when Sandro or Pippo or Ambro, that should be the most worrying of all. But Rino is Rino: he is one of those people who can one second chase after you with a sharpened fork and a murderous intent, and the next he will be tackling you into a bear hug, all anger forgotten in a flash.

It’s the silent ones you should be afraid of, as someone once said.

It’s the silent fury of Andrea after Pippo has gone a step too far – be it a purposefully hurtful comment or a genuinely unintentional jab that hits far too close to home – that everyone, even Rino, has learned to steer clear of.

It’s the self-imposed seclusion of Pippo wherein he hides behind his meticulous routines, his compulsions, his only half-exaggerated madness, that tells people who know them that a tidal wave is about to come crashing over the peaceful shores of Milanello.

The way they tiptoe around each other – sometimes days, sometimes even weeks – is the single most efficient argument against their mutual insistence that there’s no feelings beyond fucking between them.

Their arguments take a long time to brew and even longer to get over. Everyone in Milanello knows what’s coming long before it happens, and yet the force of it takes them by surprise each time.

It will start with an innocent enough comment, probably meant only for Sandro’s ears.

“I can’t believe the shithead got himself paparazzied again. Like we didn’t have to put up with enough shit without the yellow press inviting itself in.”

The spark is lit when the shithead in question catches the offhandedly spoken words.

“Care to say that to my face? We can’t all be fucking _saints_ with your perfect marriages, fucker.”

It’s a normal enough exchange, something they’d get over in a matter of minutes, was it not for the resentment brewing underneath the surface. With the denied feelings dragged so close to the surface, even a single word can take a personal undercurrent.

“Oh, I’m no saint. But at least I’m capable of keeping it in my pants more than half a day at a time. Slut.”

“Hey, I’m free to fuck whoever the hell I want. Unlike you, Mr. Perfect Marriage.”

It will go on like that, insults thrown in both directions, until one of them will snap and bring up something more personal.

This time it’s Andrea:

“Know what? I’m sick and tired of you using me as an excuse for your shitty behaviour. Let’s face it: you’re a fucking psycho. You’re terrified of losing control of that tiny micromanaged mess of a world you’ve built around yourself. And you keep me around, just so you can blame _me_ every time you fuck things up yourself.”

He anticipates the punch even before it comes. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the knowledge of the pain his words must have caused Pippo.

That night Andrea will sneak out of his and Sandro’s shared room and cross over the corridor to Pippo’s door, not bothering to knock before slipping inside.

Pippo will lie in his bed without saying a word, even though Andrea knows he can’t possibly be asleep yet, and Andrea will slip between the covers and gently trace his fingers over the sensitive skin at his sides, knowing the scratch marks are there without even looking at him.

The marks are always worse when Pippo is left alone for too long.

Andrea will never admit that’s one of the reasons he keeps coming back.

Neither of them will apologize out loud, but after the storm the calm always follows. Come morning, they’ll be back to normal, the pain nothing more than another scar in their already battered relationship.

And Milanello will go back to its casual bickering and friendly teasing, only interrupted by Rino’s regular stints in attempted murder.


	3. Betrayal

Andrea marries Deborah out of love, both of them young and devoted and ready to face the challenges of life together. He promises to love her and support her until death do them apart. He promises not to ever betray her trust, and he means every word.

His summer wedding coincides with his transfer to AC Milan, and his transfer to Milan brings about his first real encounter with one Filippo Inzaghi, after years of only watching him on the pitch.

Andrea remembers his promises to his newly wedded wife, and he’s determined to hold onto those promises. He will not betray her.

But his resolve is quickly crumbling when sharing a dressing room with Inzaghi. The man is a walking innuendo, with his sly smile and too expressive hands, or the way he carries his lanky form, like he knows everyone in the room is watching him, wanting him.

He doesn’t say anything to Andrea. He doesn’t need to. It’s enough when he brushes past him in the doorway or bumps their shoulders together on the training pitch, and Andrea finds his breath stuck in his throat just for that fraction of a second.

“Smug bastard,” Andrea grumbles to Ambro once, unprompted and completely uncalled for, when he notices Inzaghi looking at him from the other side of the dressing room with a knowing smirk gracing his lips.

“Who?” Ambro asks absent-mindedly as he ties his shoelaces, not even paying attention to what Andrea is saying. It’s probably for the best: Andrea’s not too keen on explaining what their peculiar star striker is making him feel, mostly because he has no idea himself.

He dreams of long fingers on bare skin that night. A lanky, slim body pressed against his. The touch of chapped lips brushing against his neck.

Andrea wakes up next to his wife, in their marriage bed, a layer of cold sweat covering his body and his cock throbbing with unreleased _want_.

It’s been less than 3 months since he married Deborah, and he feels like he’s betrayed her already. He’s betraying her anew with every stolen glance and rogue thought; with every dream that takes him further away from her.

He slips out of bed and hides in the bathroom for hours, letting the freezing water wash away the sweat and arousal he never asked for.


	4. Hate Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating has gone up for the obvious reasons.
> 
> It's also been 3 years since I last wrote an explicit scene, so please go easy on me?

Contrary to all expectations, their first time doesn’t happen in the spur of a moment.

Instead, it’s been a long time coming, spurred on by Pippo’s persistent flirting and Andrea’s ever-growing confusion over his own attraction. By the time he accepts the fact he wants to fuck Pippo, it’s no surprise to anyone else in the Milan squad – well, except for maybe Kaká, who’s been with the squad only a few weeks at this point, and Rino’s already taken it upon himself to protect his virgin sensibilities from the corrupting influence of his teammates.

It should be noted that although Andrea has grudgingly come to accept his questionable taste in men, he doesn’t necessarily agree with his cock on this matter.

First of all, he’s never considered himself to be anything else than a straight man, and he feels it a completely reasonable reaction not to embrace his new sexual awakening when it first happens only months into his perfectly happy marriage.

Secondly, as far as men in his life go, Andrea can think of quite a list of people he’d much rather be attracted to than Pippo fucking Inzaghi. Not only is Pippo an insufferable nutjob who never wastes a chance to poke fun at Andrea – given, Andrea does exactly the same with him, so maybe that’s just how their dynamics work? – but he’s also a massive man slut who flirts and sleeps with anything that moves.

Needless to say, Andrea despises the predicament he’s found himself in. That doesn’t stop him from wanting Pippo, though, not even after two whole years of fighting off the persistent _thing_ he refuses to call a crush.

In the end, he comes to a conclusion that the only way to sate his raging libido is to give it what it wants and move on. He even convinces himself it’s the only way to save his marriage from falling apart: he’s been cheating on his wife on a thought-level for so long now that he can’t even pretend that actually doing it will make things somehow worse.

It makes Andrea furious with himself for letting things deteriorate so far without putting a stop to it, which in turn makes him mad at Pippo, who’s done everything in his power to keep Andrea hooked on the mere idea of fucking him. Pippo is no idiot, no matter what Andrea might say to his face: there’s no way in hell he’s unaware of the affect he has on people around him.

There are no pretences whatsoever when it finally happens: Andrea meets Pippo’s sharp gaze over the heads of their teammates in one of the Milanello common rooms, and they head for the shower rooms in silent agreement, shrugging off any questions from their friends.

Pippo locks the door behind them, fully aware of what they’re about to do, and then he stops in his tracks, eyes challenging, waiting for Andrea to make the next move.

“Wipe that smug smile off your face.” Andrea’s tone is sharp, aggressive. He’s not doing this because he wants to, but because he _has to_ , and he’s not about to let Pippo think otherwise. “That’s the fucking reason we’re in this shit to begin with.”

Pippo only tilts his head in obvious amusement, his smirk stretching from one ear to another like the goddamned Cheshire Cat. Andrea can’t think of even one proper reason why he should be attracted to this man, and yet that fucking expression only makes his cock twitch in obvious interest.

“I still hate you, just so you know,” Andrea tells him as he takes one long stride right into Pippo’s personal space. Pippo makes no attempt to step back as Andrea’s fingers tangle in the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Prove it?” It’s the only thing Pippo needs to say to push Andrea over the edge and right into his arms.

Their lips crash together none too gently, stubbles scratching sensitive skin and teeth clashing painfully, but neither of them cares. Andrea is pulling on the collar of Pippo’s shirt, forcing him to stay close, and he’s half-expecting the fabric to tear in his hold. Pippo’s hand has found its way to Andrea’s neck, unbearably gentle in contrast to his harsh lips on Andrea’s. Andrea finds Pippo’s lower lip and bites down, fully intentional, making Pippo hiss in pain right into his mouth. Andrea can taste blood on his tongue.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, aren’t you?” Pippo is still grinning when they come up for air. His lip is swollen and bloodied, but it doesn’t stop him from diving back in with equal fervour from before. He shifts his weight towards Andrea, and his thigh presses between Andrea’s legs with practiced ease, every movement so natural it must be practiced.

Andrea has no time to ponder what exactly Pippo has been doing to get so good at this – it’s obvious, anyways – as the last pieces of sense fly out of his mind when Pippo’s thigh puts pressure against his raging hard-on. He groans against Pippo’s lips and pushes back, forces Pippo to move until his back is pressed against the locked door, their bodies pressed flush together.

Pippo rolls his hips against Andrea’s, the shape of his cock obvious through his sweatpants. Andrea pushes those down angrily; he tells himself it’s only because he’s eager to get this over with as soon as possible, so he can get back to his normal life.

“Fuck,” Pippo breathes out when Andrea wraps his fingers around his cock, his grip tight and full of intention. “Why’d we wait so long to do this, anyways?”

“Shut up, shithead,” Andrea growls and crashes their lips back together before Pippo has a chance to say, “Make me.” He keeps jerking Pippo off even as he explores his mouth with his tongue, his body acting on its own accord, more than ready to take what it’s been denied for so long.

Pippo’s lanky body and slightly slouched posture often hide the fact that he’s packing a professional athlete’s body underneath it all: he’s all firm muscle and sharp edges, nothing like what Andrea is used to with his wife.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Pippo asks in a low voice, lips ghosting above Andrea’s, and the tone makes Andrea’s cock ache with lust. “You know you want to. _Andrea_.” Andrea can’t even remember when was the last time Pippo called him by his first name. Maybe never.

Pippo makes the decision for him: he turns around and leans his front against the door, his bare ass offered for Andrea’s raging needs. There are almost healed hand marks decorating his hips, the bruises just barely visible against his tanned skin, positioned perfectly to tell Andrea he’s not the first man who’s laid his hands on Pippo this summer. He’s not surprised in the least.

He digs his fingers into the bruised skin, determined to make the blood rush back into the surface. “You’re such a slut.”

“It’s my choice, isn’t it?” Pippo bites back with a chuckle, eyes twinkling when he looks at Andrea over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

“I don’t give a shit, darling,” Andrea snarls and bites the skin connecting Pippo’s neck and shoulder, just visible beneath his neckline. Pippo is so much taller than him, it pisses him off.

“If you say so,” Pippo hums out his agreement. He pushes his hips back to press his ass against Andrea’s still clothed cock, silently inviting him to go on. Andrea almost steps back, just to spite him.

Instead, he pulls a small package of lube from his pocket and tears it open with his teeth. Pippo groans out loud when Andrea pushes his middle finger inside him, no sign of discomfort in his lean body. Andrea is torn between taking him right away or taking his time, because he might hate Pippo’s guts, but _fuck_ he’s gorgeous like this, languid and relaxed under Andrea’s touches.

Andrea is trembling with his own arousal, though, which is what forces his hand. He spreads the lube inside Pippo quickly, twirls his finger inside the clenching hole, and if his breath catches in his throat when Pippo looks at him through his dark lashes – well, that’s just the arousal speaking, isn’t it?

It takes far too long for Andrea’s liking to push his own pants down and to roll the condom over his aching cock. His hands are shaking far too much, when he’s supposed to be the one with clear plan and intent.

“Holy shit.” This time it’s Andrea who vocalizes both their reactions when he finally manages to push himself inside Pippo’s awaiting body. It’s tight and hot, and Andrea might forget for a moment that this is a man he’s sworn to hate until the day he dies. “ _Holy motherfucking god you feel good_.”

Pippo throws his head back and laughs, right into Andrea’s ear, and it might be a mocking laugh, but it’s also full of _relief_ as he gasps out, “Told you so.”

Andrea jerks his hips, revelling in the delicious friction his every movement causes to his cock. He wastes no time going slow – Pippo’s obviously not expecting it, either – his thrusts hand and fast, merciless, just like he’s dreamed of taking him so many times. Pippo’s moans in his ears sound impossibly loud, and for a second Andrea imagines all their teammates must hear them all the way to the common room.

“I fucking hate you,” he gasps against Pippo’s shoulder, biting the same spot over and over again to muffle his own moans. He won’t give Pippo the satisfaction of hearing him.

“Tell me about it.” Pippo is still laughing between the breathy moans, and that’s the sound that pushes Andrea over the edge. It’s over far too quickly, the tight clenching of Pippo’s body urging the orgasm out of him much faster than his wife ever could. Andrea had expected that – you don’t fantasize about something for two years without consequences – but still it takes him by surprise, his sounds muffled against the fabric of Pippo’s shirt.

He realizes only afterwards that Pippo must have been touching himself, the bathroom door stained by his come as they pull apart.

There’s a stunned silence hanging between them afterwards; the post-coital satisfaction that spreads through Andrea’s body is fighting an inner battle with his rational mind that’s screaming at him to walk away now while he still can.

Then Pippo is undressing himself, wholly unashamed of his own body. He walks to the nearest shower booth and turns the tap, steaming hot water rushing down his skin.

“You coming?” he asks Andrea, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is.

Later, Andrea will wonder what possessed him to do it. But at that moment, the only thing he can think of doing is to slip into the shower booth with Pippo, so that’s exactly what he does.


	5. Break-up

It’s not a break-up if they never were together.

“We need to end this. It’s not healthy for either of us.”

It’s Pippo who first says it, but it’s something both of them have been thinking for weeks, months, maybe even years, maybe even before this all started. This thing they have – this _something_ that they refuse to call a relationship – has been a lifeline for them, an escape, an easy way out when it’s the last thing either of them needed. They’ve been each other’s excuses in order not to face their real problems.

Andrea looks down at Pippo’s hands because he cannot look him in the eye. He regrets it right away: the backs of Pippo’s hands are red with angry scratch marks, open wounds mattering the pale skin. He’s scratching even now, short nails digging into the already broken skin. Pippo probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

It’s something that’s been steadily getting worse. When they first hooked up, it was barely noticeable, Pippo’s tendency to clam up and hurt himself rather than the people around him whenever he was feeling overwhelmed.

Andrea knows them by heart: the rigorous regime Pippo follows to the minute, all the little routines he’s established to keep himself from spiralling.

“Hush, you don’t need to do that,” Andrea tells him quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, as he takes Pippo’s hands between his own to stop the compulsive scratching. “Focus on my voice. Nothing’s wrong. It’s all good. _You’re in control_.”

Andrea’s long been wondering how much of Pippo’s current state is caused by him, and how much of it was inevitable regardless of the way their relationship has developed.

They keep hurting each other, intentionally or not, because they’ve never been honest with their feelings. Ironically enough, their dishonesty has led them into the predicament where there’s no one else in their lives who knows them more intimately than they know each other, despite not knowing anything at all.

Andrea lifts Pippo’s hands up to his lips and kisses his knuckles gently, first on the right hand and then the left. He’s never thought of them as being an item, but now that he’s faced with the decision to end this, whatever this is, he feels reluctant to let go.

“I don’t want to leave you alone when you’re like this,” he tells Pippo, and it’s only a half-truth. He wouldn’t want to leave Pippo even if he was fine.

He can feel Pippo shiver under his touch. He doesn’t have the courage to meet his gaze even now, because he’s scared what he will see: he’s not sure if it’s real emotion or emptiness that he’s more afraid of.

“Just for tonight?” Pippo sounds defeated, like he’s too tired to even fight anymore.

“Just for tonight,” Andrea assures him without meeting his eyes. He kisses the broken skin on Pippo’s hands again, like a silent promise. “And tomorrow, we can end it. You’re right. It’s not healthy.”

It’s for the best, they both know. With no excuses, Andrea will finally have to face his wife and fix his waning marriage, and Pippo will have to get help – real help – from someone who’s not too close, someone who can make a real difference.

That night, when Pippo kisses him, it feels much more real than ever before: it’s gentle, but also filled with fear and desperation. It’s the kind of kiss that makes Andrea’s heart ache in a wordless plea for something real, something more permanent.

It’s not a break-up, because they were never together in the first place.

Come morning, Andrea will walk away, and for the first time he will wish that they were.


	6. Losing a Final Match

They had thought they’d won it.

Andrea sits on the floor of the bathroom in his hotel room in Istanbul, cold water running down his face and body, hiding the tears he might or might not be shedding even now, hours after that crucial penalty shootout.

They’d played so well, everything had gone their way. And then, in six fucking minutes, it all came crashing down, a collective brain fart executed by the whole Milan team, allowing the opponents to come even.

He’s shivering from cold, and he knows he should move away from under the freezing water. This type of behaviour, it’s more of Pippo’s way of coping with disappointments. But Andrea is too exhausted to get up or to turn off the shower. It feels like he left his very being out there on the pitch. At least with the cold water, he can still convince himself that he can feel _something_.

His mind replays his penalty on repeat, over and over and over again, and every time he can witness Dudek reaching the ball just in time and blocking its way. If only he could’ve hit it just a bit harder, aimed it just a bit better, made it that much more impossible to save. It might have turned the whole game around.

But really, he’s only a man – if even that, he’s not so sure anymore – who is he to stop destiny from unfolding?

He can’t think of another reason, no matter how much he wracks his brain. There was nothing they could’ve done better, he’s certain of it. This is how it was meant to happen. They were meant to lose from the start, and this was just destiny’s sick way of showing it down their throats.

It was never about who deserved to win or lose, it was all predetermined, a sadistic joke of destiny.

“Might as well quit.” The words are spoken to the cold bathroom tiles. Even their soft blue hue seems to be mocking him.

He hears the door to his room opening and closing, but he makes no move to stand up. It’s Pippo, it can’t be anyone else. Only Pippo would dare to barge into Andrea’s room unannounced and uninvited. Andrea can’t even find the energy to be pissed off at him.

Soft yellow light shining through the opened bathroom door, bathing the soothing blue tiles with warmer colours. The contrast seems to be mocking Andrea. Bare feet on the cold tiles, Pippo’s silent steps heading toward the shower cubicle. The sudden warmth hitting his skin when the tap is turned to more bearable temperatures.

“Don’t drown yourself.” Pippo’s gruff voice breaks through his invasive thoughts, quiet and matter-of-fact, not berating at all.

Pippo wasn’t there, he didn’t have to go through what Andrea did, forced to the sidelines with yet another injury woe. For a fraction of a second Andrea feels almost jealous of him, before he checks himself, disgusted with his own thoughts. He still remembers Pippo’s tears of frustration from only a night before, when it became apparent that he wouldn’t even make the bench.

“Ready to get up?” Pippo asks after another moment passes without a word from Andrea. He’s leaning his shoulder against the shower wall, not quite far enough to avoid the now warm spray of water.

“Not really,” Andrea admits and looks up at his— whatever Pippo is to him? They’re far beyond labels by now, stuck in their constant push and pull of a relationship.

Pippo doesn’t smile, not even his trademark dry smirk. Instead, he lets out a soft, tired sigh and turns off the shower, leaving Andrea feeling cold again. “Too bad, I’m tired of waiting.”

He pulls out a towel Andrea’s certain he wasn’t holding before, and he drops it over Andrea’s head, covering his hair and shoulders, allowing him another moment of privacy, his face hidden from the world. There are fresh tears burning his eyes, even though he was so certain they’d all dried out by now.

“I’ll be out there if you need anything. Just take your time.” With that, Pippo walks out of the bathroom, leaving Andrea to collect his thought and pull himself just together enough to follow him.

It takes Andrea maybe fifteen minutes longer before he’s ready to face the world again. Pippo is lying on the bed when he exists the bathroom; on top of the comforter, still fully clothed. He looks over at Andrea when he walks into the room, but he says nothing, only raises his eyebrows in question. Andrea shrugs in response.

Andrea’s feeling disoriented, like his whole world has somehow been pushed off its axis, like everything surrounding him is suddenly just _wrong_ , and he can’t do anything to put it right again. He doesn’t feel like himself at all.

_Is this how Pippo sees the world all the time? No wonder he’s messed up._

The thought takes him completely by surprise, and he quickly hides the question in the back of his mind, along with all the other mysteries he’s learned to associate with his older teammate.

Andrea drops the towel to the floor carelessly – he doesn’t miss the involuntary flinch it forces out of Pippo – and slips between the sheets without another word.

Pippo remains right there next to him, on top of the comforter while Andrea burrows himself under all the covers. His long fingers find Andrea’s wet hair and comb through the strands gently. The touch feels too intimate for them, but Andrea finds he doesn’t care, finds the gesture comforting, even.

“How’d you even get in?” Andrea remembers to ask only moments before he slips out of consciousness, all energy draining out of his body.

“Told the receptionist I’d lost my key card. Gave your room number instead of mine.”

He’s probably leaving something unsaid – that, or Andrea really should be worried about the lax security measures in their hotel – but Andrea realizes he doesn’t give a shit.

For now, he’s just happy Pippo is there for him.


	7. Unexpected Transfer

Bobo Vieri is in Milanello.

Unsurprisingly, he latches himself onto Pippo the first chance he gets. Starting from that moment, Pippo never goes anywhere without his new shadow following him with booming laughter and contagious smiles.

Andrea’s not jealous.

He’s seen Pippo and Bobo with the national team, so seeing them together in Milanello is nothing new. Furthermore, even if this was new to him, he still wouldn’t have a reason to be jealous.

So what, if there had been a moment of connection after Istanbul?

So what, if it had been Pippo who convinced him to continue his career after the painful loss he had thought he’d never get over?

So what, if Andrea had found himself reaching out to Pippo during the summer break even when he had no reason to?

And so what, if for a few moments, it had felt like Pippo was reaching out to him, too?

Now, Bobo is hogging all of Pippo’s time and attention, and Pippo seems happier than anyone has seen him in years. He’s more relaxed, and the skin on his arms and legs seems free of bruises for the first time ever, as far as Andrea can remember.

All things considered, Bobo’s arrival to AC Milan is a godsent for Pippo’s mental health, and by extension for Andrea and the whole club as well, because a healthy Pippo is a goal-scoring Pippo. Exactly what they need.

“Hey gorgeous, drag your skinny ass over here so I can kick it at penalties!” Bobo is yelling from the top of his lungs before training even starts, and Pippo brushes past Andrea with an indulgent laugh and a long-suffering roll of his eyes.

He doesn’t look back at Andrea, only follows Bobo’s impatient voice to the pitch.

Andrea is _not_ jealous.


	8. Not Understanding the Language

Sometimes Andrea feels like they’re speaking in different languages, Pippo and him: ones inherently incompatible, the types of languages you’d be struggling to get the hang of even after years of rigorous studying, because these languages incorporate cultures so vastly different from yours.

Andrea is no stranger to language barriers, having played with people from all over the world throughout his career. He can survive with English and Spanish, and he always does his best to lend a hand to newcomers not understanding Italian, because he gets how hard it can be.

(Pippo never does, mostly because even his English in atrocious.)

It figures that his biggest problems with understanding a teammate would come from someone from Italy, rather than any of the foreigners joining the Milan ranks.

Sometimes he feels like maybe he’s learned to understand Pippo, just a little bit, only to realize how wrong he is when Pippo tells him to “Fuck off,” only to be upset when Andrea actually does. Or when Pippo says he’s doing much better and “really Andrea, you don’t need to worry about me,” which is usually followed by a discovery of new burn marks on his calves.

He tries to stay away only to witness everything going downhill. Then he tries to change his approach, when he realizes Pippo pushing him away usually means he actually needs him to stay close. But when Andrea doesn’t leave, it only leads to another downward spiral that only tells Andrea he’s still not getting it, whatever language Pippo is speaking.

“It’s not about you,” Pippo will tell him when they’re lying awake in bed one night, naked and aching from the too hard, too violent sex that they both had needed. “It’s not about you, Andrea, so you need to _stop_ _worrying_ about it.”

Andrea will call him a shithead and a wanker. And in his own language the message is clear: _I’ll always worry about you. Because I care about you._

He’s yet to figure out how to say those words in Pippo’s language.

Or in plain old Italian, for that matter.


	9. Homesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, we go all the way to the end...

Some might say that Andrea took ‘running away from your problems’ to a whole new level when he moved all the way across the Atlantic to get a fresh start after his divorce.

Frankly, Andrea doesn’t give a shit what other people think of him. All he cares about is that he can finally breathe more freely, living the life in the new world, playing football with no pressure and walking the streets of New York without being recognized every five minutes.

The divorce had been long time coming, so long it seems ridiculous in hindsight, Andrea knows it better than anyone. He’s not running away from his troubles anymore: he stopped running when he finally found the courage to admit his marriage would never work – to himself and to the world.

The idea of going to the US – slowly easing into the retirement, even if he would never say that out loud – had come only after, when all was said and done. Andrea did not want to end up one of those players who faded away on the bench in Serie A: he wanted to be remembered on top of his game, not as some past great struggling to get even few minutes at the dying moments of the match.

Yes, moving to the US had been the right call at the time.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t get homesick.

He misses Italy whenever he tries and fails to find proper pizza in New York, or whenever he struggles finding a word in English when all he can think of is the Italian one. He misses Juve and all their victories when NYCFC loses another match. He misses Milan and the golden years of his career – the ones shared with Paolo, Sandro, Rino, even Pippo – whenever he sees Milan losing another match. He misses the Azzurri, even when he still gets called up, and even more so once he doesn’t.

He finds himself missing Pippo, too, when he watches Venezia’s matches in Lega Pro.

Pippo is doing well: he’s handling his issues, with healthy coping mechanisms, the years of regularly seeing a therapist finally paying off. The skin on his hands looks unbroken as he gives instructions at the sidelines, and Andrea can tell it’s not only an illusion even without seeing what’s under his clothes.

Sometimes Andrea finds himself wondering if things could’ve been different between them, had they not come together when they did. Without the baggage of Pippo’s mental issues and Andrea’s marriage, maybe there would’ve been a chance to make things work.

Even after all this time, Pippo is still the only person in the world who Andrea thinks might know the real him; who’s seen all the worst parts of Andrea and still allowed him to get close.

So close, closer than Andrea has ever been to anyone else, before or after Pippo.

Sometimes he wonders if Pippo misses it too, the years they spent together but not really _together_. He wonders if Pippo ever watches Andrea’s matches in the MLS and ponders if it would be alright to call him, or if it would be too soon. (Or too late?)

Andrea never calls, his fingers left hovering over the painfully familiar name in his contacts list.

But he still misses Pippo, more with each passing day.

It’s not the painful, sexual, violent force of nature of their youthful days, but more of a profound ache: an empty longing inside his chest for something that could have been but never was.


	10. New Teammate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the sneak peek into the future, we're now back at the beginning.

Pirlo is not a new face to Pippo when he first arrives in Milanello.

He remembers the quiet young man with resting bitch face from the Inter bench. He remembers the impressive attacking midfielder from Reggina, and the newly-positioned deep-lying playmaker from Brescia, who’d assisted Baggio’s equalizer against Juventus only a few months earlier. Pippo had told his defence to look out for the new kid. They hadn’t listened.

But there’s only so much you can learn about someone by watching them on the pitch – or by re-watching them on video afterwards, because you cannot quite figure out what’s so special about this one.

As far as Pippo is concerned, there’s nothing _attractive_ about the new kid. He’s short and has a bad posture; his expression seems to be stuck between constant states of tiredness and annoyance; and the ridiculous little beard under his lip that seems to be in fashion these days (soul patch they call it) is the biggest mood killer Pippo has ever encountered.

But it’s one thing to look at the new kid and think, hey, this is just some kid from Brescia who I don’t need to worry about as long as he does his job on the pitch, and to actually _meet_ Andrea Pirlo.

Because Andrea Pirlo is a force of nature on his own.

People are drawn to him like moth to the flame, and his bad posture and even worse attitude cannot hide the fact that he’s a true giant underneath: an embodiment of raw talent and passion no one can miss once you start looking. And Pippo _is_ looking – he cannot stop looking once he gets started.

There’s a fire in those constantly tired-looking eyes that draws Pippo towards him. That fire seems to only intensify whenever Pirlo’s eyes are on Pippo, flashing with heated distaste but also something else – and that something else tugs at Pippo’s gut, a hint of attraction that shouldn’t be there.

He knows Pirlo is married – there’s a tattoo on his ring finger for the times he cannot put on the actual thing, and he carries it like a medal of honour – and that’s what makes Pippo keep his distance.

As long as he doesn’t get close to this small giant of a man, maybe he can stop the budding attraction from growing into something he cannot control.

Maybe, if he keeps his thoughts to himself and only jerks off in the privacy of his own room, he can stop himself from doing anything he will later regret.

Pippo has always been prone to obsessive behaviour, he knows it better than anyone.

He also knows he cannot afford letting Andrea Pirlo become one of those obsessions.


	11. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some explicit content. Consider yourself warned.

It’s one of those boring sponsor events Milan players are forced to attend with their wives, girlfriends, or (in Pippo’s case) casual dates who will never count for anything more permanent.

There might be a hint of jealousy lurking in the back of Andrea’s mind when Alessia Ventura glides onto the red carpet at Pippo’s arm, but it’s nothing he’s not used to by now.

Alessia is Pippo’s go-to option whenever he needs a date but doesn’t want the hassle of explaining his relationship status to the reporters. He’s been dating Alessia on and off for years, as far as the tabloids are concerned, so it’s become easy enough to shrug off the questions with a laugh and raised eyebrows.

Sometimes Andrea wonders how much Alessia knows – if she’s a willing participant in the deception or if Pippo is just using her infatuation to his advantage.

Andrea leads Deborah by the arm, only stopping for a few photographs that are required of them, before heading inside and joining his teammates and their significant others.

Pippo and Alessia are still on the red carpet when Andrea glances toward the door, goofing off for the cameras, both laughing at their own silliness. Andrea could almost buy the act if he didn’t know better.

“Jealous?” Sandro asks him, speaking under his breath even though their wives are obviously too engaged in their own conversation to pay any attention to their husbands’ whispering.

“Of him? I have no reason to be,” Andrea answers with a laugh that comes out fake.

He feels sorry for Sandro, who’s stuck protecting Andrea’s secrets, while Daniela and Deborah have struck a close friendship ever since Sando’s move to Milan some six years ago. Andrea feels guilty for making Sandro lie to Daniela, but at the same time he’s relieved he has someone he can confide in.

“Well, he definitely is. Didn’t you see the way he looked at you and Deb when you walked past them?”

Andrea feels his face heating up and he’s quick to change subjects, recounting a genius prank he and De Rossi had pulled on Gattuso during the European Championships. Sometimes it gets lonely, with Sandro and Pippo both retired from the Azzurri, but at least he can still fuck up Rino’s life whenever he feels like it.

Sandro’s words don’t leave him alone, though, and he spends good part of the next hour studying the way Pippo acts around him.

At first it seems innocent enough: Pippo is attached to Alessia by the hip, taking his time before joining any conversations going around in the large exhibition hall. But when he does, he still does all he can to avoid eye-contact with Andrea, practically ignoring him in favour of some boring business associates.

Maybe Sandro did have a point, after all. Andrea, however, has no idea what to do with this new-found information, because jealousy has never been a part of the deal between him and Pippo. Or at least they’ve never admitted it.

Pippo takes the decision away from Andrea by cornering him at the restroom door and following him all the way into the empty booth.

It strikes Andrea only when Pippo claims his lips into a scorching kiss that they haven’t done this since last spring, when the Serie A season ended, and Andrea travelled to Switzerland with the national team.

“Miss me?” Andrea teases quietly, hyperaware of the fact that they’re in a public restroom and anyone walking in could hear them.

“Shut up,” Pippo growls against his lips and catches them into another kiss. His hands are doing a quick work of Andrea’s belt and then he pushes his dress trousers down to his thighs, hands inside his boxers without waiting for reciprocation.

Andrea _has_ missed this, he realizes when Pippo’s calloused hand wraps around his cock, and he hits his head painfully against the bathroom wall when he tries to break the kiss just long enough to gasp for air. It’s not something he’ll ever tell Pippo.

Pippo drops to his knees unceremoniously and pulls Andrea’s boxers down too. His breath feels cool against Andrea’s erection, but his mouth is hot when he leans in and takes Andrea into his mouth, leaving Andrea holding his breath, terrified of letting out even a smallest of sounds.

It doesn’t take long – it actually takes an embarrassingly short time, if you ask Andrea – before Andrea comes into Pippo’s mouth with a low groan he cannot hold back.

Pippo only gets up and brushes invisible dust off his suit, straightening himself up, nice and clean. Andrea can just about see the outline of his erection against his black trousers.

“I can take care of that,” he tells Pippo quietly and nods towards his crotch. He _wants_ to take care of it, although his bored tone hopefully doesn’t betray the truth.

“No need, thanks. I gotta get back to my date.” Pippo answers and slips out of the toilet booth without another glance at Andrea.

Pippo and Alessia are long gone by the time Andrea has collected himself enough to join his wife in the exhibition hall. Andrea can’t even pretend the jealousy isn’t there anymore.


	12. Unrequited Love

Andrea can’t quite pinpoint when his disgruntled lust for Pippo turned into love.

He only realizes one morning far too many years into their arrangement, as he lays in bed and watches Pippo doing his newest morning routine – established at the advice of his therapist to help him focus on something useful instead of all those tiny details fucking with his brain – that this is the sight he wants to wake up to every morning.

(Well, almost. He’d prefer less of the OCD and more of Pippo’s admittedly fine ass shaking in his face.)

Andrea’s never been very good at expressing his emotions; the way he and Pippo have never figured out what to call this thing between them is only one example of this. So, obviously he’s left at a loss of words when everything suddenly clicks into place and he finally _gets it_.

Instead of telling Pippo of this new breakthrough, Andrea says what’s been on the tip of his tongue for weeks, “I’m going to Juve next season.”

Pippo stops in his tracks. They’ve both known Andrea is leaving Milan at the end of the season, his contract not extended by mutual agreement, but they’ve never really talked about it.

Pippo still has another year in his contract.

_Please tell me you don’t want me to go._

Pippo returns to his routine, carefully folding his pyjama bottoms and setting them down on a chair next to the bed. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

_Please tell me Turin is only two hours away._

“Is that what you want to do?” Pippo is not even looking at him, only carrying on with his routine, his tone nonchalant.

_Please tell me you’ll come visit._

 “I guess? Anything’s better than here.”

_Please tell me we won’t be over._

Pippo is moisturizing his upper body, circular motions rubbing over the scarred skin. There are still red patches of skin in the places he keeps scratching in his sleep, but there are no new cuts or burns, only the old fading scars.

They’ve come so far, the two of them.

“I guess I should wish you good luck, then?” Pippo glances at Andrea over his shoulder, his tone careless, casual. “Though I’ll be kicking your sorry ass when we play each other, that’s for sure.”

“Dream on. Your old joints will be destroyed if you as much as try to keep up, shithead,” Andrea informs him helpfully, throwing a pillow at Pippo’s head. Pippo picks it up and sets it back on the bed, carefully aligned with Andrea’s pillow in tight symmetry. Some things never change.

Andrea doesn’t voice any of his earlier thoughts. There’s no point when he already knows the answer.


	13. Oversleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added some tags, please beware of any and all possibly triggering material.

There are two ways to handle the situation when you forget to set your alarm and end up oversleeping because of it.

One is to show up at practice fifteen minutes late with a sheepish smile and an airy, “Sorry coach, I overslept – won’t happen again!” Andrea is fairly used to this approach, having used it more than once himself.

Then there’s the Pippo way, where you show your face at the training facility at lunch time at the earliest, sometimes only during the afternoon training session. If you show up at all, that is. There’s a joke among the Milan players that Inzaghi could sleep through the end of the world unless his alarms go off as planned.

And yes, _alarms_ in plural, as Andrea has found out since he started sleeping with Pippo.

Pippo sets five alarms in total, every night: two on the digital alarm clock sitting on his bedside table, one on his old-school alarm clock placed on the drawer in the other end of his room, and finally two on his mobile phone, one at each end of the cycle.

Andrea has never heard more than one alarm going off in the rare mornings he wakes up in Pippo’s bed: Pippo is always up as soon as the first alarm on his phone starts ringing, turning off the ringer and then going around the room disabling the rest of his alarms before they get a chance to go off. If someone asked Andrea, he would hazard a guess that Pippo is awake every morning long before the first alarm, only waiting to get on with this ritual.

It all has made him wonder how on earth is Pippo even capable of oversleeping in the first place, let alone for several hours.

He doesn’t ask, of course – they’re not _friends_ , so it’s none of his business anyhow – more than content with taking what he needs from Pippo (amazing sex, as it happens) and leaving the man’s peculiarities stay as mere afterthoughts.

It’s this utter lack of interest from Andrea’s part – not to mention the fact he only stays the night once in every blue moon – why it takes Andrea so long to realize that maybe Pippo’s eccentricities are part of a larger problem, instead of being just harmless character traits.

It may have been Andrea’s fault when the shit finally hits the fan. No, scratch that, it’s definitely Andrea’s fault for distracting Pippo’s evening routine, causing him to forget to set the alarms on his phone.

As a result, it’s not the familiar melody of Pippo’s first phone alarm that wakes them up in the morning, but the mechanical beeping of the digital clock, mere 5 minutes later than they’re used to.

Andrea grumbles and tries to reach for the annoying noise blindly, hoping to shut it off, completely buried under the covers. He deems it necessary to unbury himself only when the digital alarm is joined by a louder one, this time from the clock on the drawer. “For fuck’s sake, just stop them already you wanker!”

But Pippo isn’t asleep. Instead, he’s sitting up on his side of the bed, pale as a sheet, staring at the opposing wall like he’s seen a ghost. He looks like he’s not even hearing the alarms.

“Fucking brilliant,” Andrea mumbles and hits the snooze button on the digital clock, his body half-covering Pippo’s when he reaches over him to reach the bedside table. “Oooi, shithead! It’s time to get up!”

The alarm clock on the drawer is still clattering on, making Andrea’s ears ring. Andrea curses under his breath and half-falls out of the bed in his rush to silence the damn thing. Why would Pippo even have such thing in the digital age, Andrea has no idea, but the clock _needs to go_ , if only to stop Andrea from going crazy.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Andrea huffs out at Pippo when the clock is finally silenced – and thrown into the trashcan for good measure. “Thanks for taking care of that, wanker. What’s the big deal when we both know you’re gonna be awake anyways?”

Pippo is still not answering, which is unusual in itself; Andrea is not used to not having his insults returned to him right away. Moreover, Pippo is not even looking at Andrea, and he’s still looking unnaturally pale.

“Hey, you okay?” Andrea’s groggy brain finally informs him that this is not normal Pippo behaviour.

When he walks over, he realizes Pippo is breathing too fast, taking shallow breaths in fast succession, his chest heaving like he still can’t get enough air. His whole body is trembling when Andrea reaches out to him, and his pulse is all over the place when Andrea places his hands on either side of his neck.

This is officially _not good_. Andrea might not be an expert, but he’s familiar enough with panic attacks to recognize one when he sees it. Too bad he has no idea how to handle one.

“Hey hey hey, look at me,” Andrea tries to get Pippo’s attention, keeping his voice soft in the fear of triggering an even worse attack. “It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s just one alarm, not the end of the world. It’ll be fine. Pippo, you need to _breathe_.”

He keeps up the soft babble for minutes, careful to keep his own breathing controlled to offer Pippo a point of reference. He’s not sure if it’s helping or if Pippo is just coming off the worst part on his own, but after maybe ten minutes, his breathing has calmed down to near-normal levels.

“There we go,” Andrea murmurs softly, wiping cold sweat off Pippo’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Told you it’d be alright, didn’t I?”

Pippo is finally focusing his gaze, meeting Andrea’s eyes like he’s seeing him for the first time. He opens his mouth for a few times, but no sound comes out. When it finally does, his voice is rough, as if he’s been shouting for the past hour, “You need to go.”

“—What?” It’s honestly the last thing Andrea thought he was going to say.

“Get the fuck out,” Pippo tells him, his voice no more than a whisper, but the message is still clear as a day. “I don’t want you here.”

“Suit yourself, shithead. See if I ever help you again.”

And Andrea leaves with that, fuming over the lack of gratitude, determined never to show he actually cares in Pippo’s presence again.

Pippo doesn’t show up at practice at all that day. Andrea doesn’t give a shit.

 

 

 

(Years later, Andrea will think back to that morning and wonder if things would’ve turned out differently, had he stayed despite Pippo’s insistence.)


	14. Scoring an Own Goal

There’s a bet going on among the Milan players that whoever scores an own goal during a competitive match will have to treat the rest of the team to dinner.

Andrea is rarely the one to pay – never, that is – and so is Pippo, for obvious reasons, although those reasons do change depending on who you ask.

If you ask either of them about their own prowess in avoiding own goals, they’ll both exclaim they’re _just that good_.

If you ask Andrea about Pippo, he will claim it’s because Pippo is too lazy to drag his skinny ass away from the offside position long enough to ever contribute in the defensive end, neither in good nor in bad.

If you ask Pippo about Andrea, he will say Andrea is too short, so all the opponents’ shots will sail right above him before he gets a chance to get his fat head in the way of the ball.

The truth is probably somewhere close to the halfway point – although Sandro likes to remind them it’s mostly because neither of them bothers with the defence in the first place, leaving the hardest job to others, and “Let’s face it, you’d both be fucked if you weren’t playing ahead of the best fucking defence in Europe.”

Needless to say, neither of them pays any mind to Sandro’s very accurate assessment.

Because of this ages-old argument, Andrea and Pippo have come up with a bet of their own – one that covers not only competitive matches, but also friendlies and even training session. The rules are simple: if one of them scores an own goal, whatever the situation, he’ll have to do whatever the other one tells him to until the next morning.

Of course, since the implementation of this new bet, its biggest impact has been on the amount of grey hairs on Ancelotti’s head, as Andrea and Pippo have started spending majority of their training sessions doing everything they can to score by hitting the other on the way.

They’re getting damn good at it, too, what with Andrea’s pinpoint precision and Pippo’s uncanny skill to always be in the right place at the right time.

And the results of losing the bet, you ask?

Sometimes Pippo winds up sitting the whole evening in Andrea and Sandro’s room, trying and failing to appear interested in the four-hundredth FIFA match of the night.

Sometimes Andrea ends up accompanying Pippo to the training pitch after-hours, helping him drill into muscle memory a new set of link-up plays he insists will come in handy against their next opponent.

Sometimes Andrea will attempt to persuade Pippo into sharing his last two Plasmons with him, just for the shits and giggles. Those times, he usually finds himself locked out of Pippo’s room without much fanfare.

Then there are those times which they spend exploring their sexualities further: attempted bondage that ends quickly when Pippo freaks out over handing the control over to Andrea; breath-play that gives Andrea one of his most intense orgasms to date, but also leaves him feeling much too vulnerable to his liking; rimming, delayed orgasms, sex out on the training pitches, sex in _Rino’s_ bed— that last one gets them in real trouble, so it happens only that once.

There’s also that one time when – after a full week of observing Pippo walk around looking like death warmed over – Andrea only tugs Pippo in bed and tells him in no-nonsense terms to, “Go the fuck asleep or I swear I’m gonna knock you out cold.”

That same night, Pippo reaches out to take a hold of Andrea’s hand and whispers, “Stay.”

Come next morning, he will deny ever doing such thing. Andrea will let him.


	15. The Coach Hates You

Andrea is half-convinced Allegri hates him.

No, scratch that, Allegri _must_ hate him, that’s the only reason Andrea can think of when he’s benched for another match, even though he’s been back with the squad for weeks now after recovering from his latest injury.

Andrea is not used to being left out, and he hates the feeling with passion. He hates watching Rino and Clarence and Sandro on the pitch, when he himself is stuck on the bench game after game like some Primavera kid.

At least Pippo is not there to witness his degradation.

The thought of Pippo doesn’t make him feel better at all: he’s been out with an injury for months now, rumours of his career being finished flying around unbidden.

If there’s one thing Andrea hates more than his own situation – or Allegri, because there’s very few things he hates more than Allegri right at this moment – it’s Pippo being forced out of his natural habitat in front of the goal, be it by an incompetent coach or by his shitty knees.

Pippo might be doing better mentally than he’s done in a long time, but Andrea can tell he’s missing the pitch whenever they meet up in Milanello between the First Team trainings and Pippo’s physiotherapy sessions.

Andrea misses the pitch too, probably just as much as Pippo does. Football’s been their whole life for so long, neither of them can function without it anymore.

He sneaks his phone out of his bag just as their opponents are granted a dangerous freekick just outside the box. Andrea would definitely score that, were he given such an opportunity.

The kick sails well past the goal.

There’s no new calls or texts – everyone knows they’re in the middle of the match, which means he’s not supposed to even have his phone – but Andrea doesn’t pay that any mind, he only opens his old message thread with Pippo and types new text.

_‘You’ll be back soon, right? It’s boring here without your crazy.’_

He’s about to hide his phone again when Pippo’s answer arrives, far too quickly to be coincidental.

_‘This match is boring without you out there.’_

Andrea finds himself smiling at his phone until he catches Allegri glaring at him. Oh yes, the phone, still not allowed.

He finishes the match on the bench. Milan wins it out there on the pitch, another step forward on their quest for the Scudetto.

It’s the first time Andrea seriously considers leaving.


	16. Accidentally Injuring a Teammate

“I fucking hate you, you shithead,” Andrea informs Pippo in a furious hiss as he drags himself onto the training pitch ten minutes late with just barely noticeable limp.

Pippo, always the charmer, only raises his eyebrows in amusement and says nothing, as if it’s not all his fault that Andrea is forced to join morning practice with an aching backside and probably a torn anus.

“For the record,” Andrea continues, his voice low to keep the conversation between just the two of them, “we’re not all sluts like you here. Some of us need time to get used to taking it up the arse.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining yesterday.” Pippo sounds too fucking smug for his own good. If Andrea had thought he couldn’t hate his teammate – fuckbuddy? – any more than he already does, he’s proven wrong right then. “How am I to know I’m supposed to take it easy when it was you _begging me_ to go faster.”

“You fucking knew,” Andrea grumbles. Pippo knew it had been Andrea’s first time bottoming. How could he not know, when it’s obvious Pippo is the only man Andrea has ever slept with? “And still you talked me into it when you knew it’d fuck me up for today’s practice.”

“I don’t recall much _talking_.” Pippo is positively leering. Andrea wants to kick his ass, and then possibly set Rino after him with a fork for the good measure, just so he would be forced to suffer at least a fraction of what he’s putting Andrea through. “Don’t fret, you’ll grow used to it after a few times.”

“There’s not gonna be next time, wanker.” Andrea glares Pippo down, even though they both know he’s probably lying through his teeth, just like he has done countless times before.

“Keep telling yourself that, _darling_.” Pippo ruffles Andrea’s overgrown hair before Andrea has a chance to dock out of the way. He hates it when Pippo acts like they’re friends or – worse yet – something more. They might be momentarily stuck in this annoying cycle of unresolved sexual tension, but it’s only a matter of time before Andrea will break free and put a stop to it, and then he’ll be free to hate Pippo with all his might again.

“Oi, lover birds, stop the flirting and drag your sorry asses over here so we can get started!” Sandro is yelling at them over from where the rest of the team is already gathered around Ancelotti.

“Need me to carry you, princess?” Pippo asks with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Dream on, fruitcake,” Andrea answers and starts jogging towards the awaiting group. With every step, there’s a new flash of pain shooting up his spine, but he will not give Pippo the satisfaction of seeing him slow down.

Of course, the pain his ass – pun completely intended – is only an afterthought in the face of the bigger injury that is his shattered pride. And Andrea knows Pippo is fully aware of it too.


	17. Being Sidelined

Pippo used to believe he would never grow old.

There used to be a time when he was on the top of the world – the highest scoring striker of his generation and of the whole footballing history – and he had truly believed that would be all he’d ever become.

He was the best of the best – right where he had always wanted to be, even back when they were still playing on the streets with Simone and the neighbourhood kids – and that was all he knew or cared about.

Back then, there was no time to worry about his future, because there were too many worries in his present that made him wonder if he would be able to find his way into tomorrow, let alone next week, next year, next _decade_.

He’d never thought about ending his own life – not even at his lowest moments, when all he could do was stare at the fresh blood dripping down his inner thigh – but he’d still somehow always assumed he wouldn’t live long enough to witness himself growing old, being sidelined in favour of younger, more talented players.

Look at him now, 38 years old and sitting on the Milan bench, helplessly watching a fair goal being disallowed in favour of Juventus and then the opponents almost scoring on counter.

Pippo still hates feeling helpless, even if the feeling doesn’t push him into a downwards spiral anymore in the same way it used to until some two years ago. It’s the growing old part that has helped him to find that balance, along with his numerous injuries and therapy sessions that have forced him to think about his life in other terms than just football.

Andrea is on the pitch, back in the position that’s rightfully his, albeit wearing the wrong colours. His fiery eyes had met Pippo’s over the heads of their teammates before the start of the game, and Pippo had been hit by a sudden wave of longing that’s still lingering in the back of his mind.

It was Andrea who had made him realize he needed help. He had wanted to be worthy of Andrea’s worry and care, and the only way to do that was to become someone capable of accepting that affection.

Pippo has never told this to anyone, especially not Andrea – he has only come to accept it as a fact himself long after the realization first happened.

Andrea is still breathtakingly beautiful on the pitch, no matter what colours he’s wearing; his every movement familiar to Pippo, each gesture committed to memory over the years he’s spent watching Andrea – only Andrea, because he’s the only one Pippo can see whenever they’re sharing the same space.

It still hurts, watching Andrea playing for Juventus, because in a way it had been Juventus that stole Andrea away from him.

It had been Milan that brought them together – _the only thing holding them together_ – so it seems only fitting it would be Pippo’s former club that tore them apart.

At the same time, it had felt like Pippo was setting Andrea free, and watching him now only convinces Pippo all over again that it was the right call: now Andrea is shining, in the way he used to when Pippo first fell for him, unburdened by Pippo’s issues or their non-relationship.

Pippo wants to be happy for Andrea, but it’s so damn hard when Juventus equalizes the game and he can see Andrea’s new teammates pulling him into their celebrations, while Pippo is stuck on the bench, sidelined because of a technical decision – because the coach knows as well as Pippo does that he is too old to contribute like he used to.

And honestly, Pippo has grown used to being sidelined, well aware he’s not getting any younger. In a way, it’s even a relief to know he won’t need to carry the team’s hopes on his shoulders anymore.

What he cannot shake off, though, is the bitterness over being sidelined from Andrea’s life in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello?_ Guess who's still salty over Muntari's ghost goal?


	18. Being Alone

Filing for a divorce might be the hardest thing Andrea has ever done.

It’s not because it’s messy – in fact, as far as separations go, theirs might be considered practically amicable – or because of the legalities involved – Andrea and Deborah have their own lawyers to draw up the papers in accordance to their prenup, neither of them disputing the agreement. Even the children take it surprisingly well when they tell them. Turns out their marriage has been dead for years and everyone has known it just as long.

The hard part is what comes after: the being alone part.

“Is there someone else?” Deborah’s question is not accusing, only resigned, but it takes Andrea by complete surprise and actually makes him think before he answers.

_Is there someone else?_

Pippo’s face pops into mind, but that’s more about _was_ than _is._

They haven’t seen each other in much more than passing since Andrea’s transfer to Juve and Pippo’s retirement – always when there are other people around, too – because without football they’ve lost their only excuse to come together without admitting it means something.

Andrea _knows_ it means something, at least to him, and that’s why he’s kept his distance, for the sake of his marriage and for the sake of whatever friendship there still is between him and Pippo.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him he’s not going to be married anymore, so what’s stopping him?

“No, there’s no one else.” The answer tastes bitter on his tongue, but not untrue. “I think I need to figure out how to be alone first.”

He cannot even remember what it feels like to be alone. Thinking back as far as he can, Deborah has always been there for him – and Pippo too, even during the times when Andrea couldn’t admit wanting him there.

He never felt alone when Pippo was around, not even when they still claimed to hate each other.

Deborah doesn’t seem convinced with his response, but she doesn’t pry. Andrea is thankful for it.

He does come back to the thought later that night, when he’s sitting alone in his too empty house, sipping red wine, only one glass sitting on the table. It reminds him what being alone truly means to him: it means being left with his own thoughts, and Andrea has never learned how to do that. His thoughts have always been his biggest weapon, but also his biggest foe, something to torture him in his solitary nights in Milanello, Coverciano, or Vinovo.

Or in his newly-emptied home, it seems.

The thought of contacting Pippo is not a new one: he’s only two hours away, training the Milan junior team; it’d be so easy just to take his car and drive to Milanello, to come face to face with all those memories he cannot quite shake.

_“I’m not married anymore,”_ he would say to Pippo. _“I’ve missed you. Please take me back?”_

In Andrea’s fantasy world, Pippo would pull him into his arms and kiss him, the touch of lips loaded with feelings they’ve never dared to admit before.

There would be no more cutmarks covering Pippo’s skin, only old scars that will never completely fade, and the skin of his hands would be smooth and scratch-free.

Pippo has been alone for so long, he’s learned to live with it: what first had made him lose control has long since turned into his greatest strength, his solitude the one thing that’s really made him _better_ , in the end.

But Pippo has never wanted the solitude, never chose it, Andrea knows it better than anyone. Andrea wants to be the one to bring that solitude to an end, to show Pippo he doesn’t need to stay alone to cope with the disorder, to show he can become Pippo’s strength just like Pippo had become his, without either of them even realizing it.

Andrea shakes himself out of the wistful fantasy and sips his wine in silence.

Even if Pippo wanted him, Andrea is far from ready to be anyone else’s strength. First, he needs to find his own standing, learn to live with himself, alone with those invasive thoughts that keep bringing him back to the edge.

If Andrea goes to Pippo now, lost as he is, he’s only going to wind up pushing Pippo off the deep end too. And that’s only if Pippo agrees to take him back in the first place, which is something Andrea highly doubts.


	19. Car Broke down in Dark Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just looking at the prompt, you should really know what's coming, but just in case someone needs the warning: **this chapter includes explicit sexual content**.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this!” Pippo is grumbling as Andrea opens the hood of their rental Mercedes, too busy pretending he knows what he’s doing to comment on Pippo’s outburst.

It had seemed like a great idea at the time, to blow off some steam on the _Autobahn_ s before the World Cup final on Sunday. Fast German cars, wide highways leading everywhere, no traffic jams – what else could a man ask for?

He had asked Sandro, but for some reason his friend hadn’t seemed too excited over the prospect of getting lost in Germany for the second time within a month. Andrea had huffed at his lacking sense of adventure, the aloof response only making him more determined to go through with the plan.

He had asked Canna next, but he had plain out refused to go anywhere near a car if Andrea was driving – how rude, Andrea is a _great_ driver – and then Gigi and Rino, who both had given some petty excuses of having already made some other plans. Traitors, they hadn’t even tried to invite Andrea to come with them.

He’d asked Pippo to come with him mostly as a joke, because he was so sure the striker would decline and stay in his room and count his Plasmons or something equally insane. To his surprise, it hadn’t taken much convincing at all – maybe Pippo was bored, after only playing in one match during the whole tournament? Or maybe he was just horny, and the idea of car sex had been too tempting to pass up.

“What the fuck are we gonna do now?” Pippo huffs out when Andrea closes the hood without touching anything underneath it. He’s pacing a few steps down from the broken car – Andrea imagines he can see a trail forming on the dirt road already, even though it’s too dark to actually see anything aside from Pippo’s tense form. “Where the hell are we, anyways?”

“Somewhere west of Düsseldorf, I think.” Andrea shrugs as he says it. It was Pippo who was supposed to read the map, and see where that’s led them?

There is a GPS device in the car that tells them Andrea’s educated guess hit pretty close to home. There’s also a contact number for the rental car company they’re supposed to call in case of emergency, which this probably is, considering they’re stranded with a dead car somewhere not far from the middle of nowhere.

“You do it, you’re the one who broke the damn car,” Pippo claims when Andrea says they should probably call for help. Andrea wants to argue – he didn’t do anything, the car just started falling apart on its own – but thinks better of it and only dials the number with an annoyed sigh, mostly because with Pippo’s language skills they’d be waiting for the help to arrive until next century.

It takes Andrea almost twenty minutes to explain the situation to the poor guy on the other end of the line, using a mix of broken English, Italian, and the few words of German he’s picked up during the last month. He only hangs up when he’s absolutely certain someone is coming to pick them up within the next hour or so.

Pippo is waiting outside when Andrea finally gets out of the car, where he had been poking the GPS in attempt to pinpoint their exact location. Pippo is leaning back against the front of the car, his arms crossed, and a permanent frown stuck on his face.

Andrea knows it must be driving Pippo crazy, feeling so out of control in this situation. He’s not freaking out, though, at least not outwardly, which is much better than Andrea was expecting. It’s done Pippo a world of good, finally pulling off a relatively injury-free season after all the stress over the last few seasons.

(Some credit might go to Bobo’s presence in Milanello too.

Andrea expertly ignores the rush of jealousy the thought gives him – he’s reached the point where he can’t even deny what the uneasy feeling is anymore, so he’s gone straight to ignoring it.)

“Help’s coming,” Andrea says as he joins Pippo, jumping up to sit on the hood of the car. What damage can it do, anyways, when the car’s already broken? At least the night is warm – it’s been such a hot summer in Germany, even by Italian standards – so they won’t have to wait inside the car, where the awkward silence would feel positively oppressing.

“C’mon, it’s not the end of the world!” Andrea tries again, the grin on his face only half-forced, and he elbows Pippo to get his attention. “I mean, we could be stuck with Rino and Gigi, watching them make doe eyes at each other. Disgusting.”

Pippo actually chuckles at the last comment. “Try not to tell that to Rino before the final, we wouldn’t want you out of commission with some fork-related injury.”

“It might be worse than that,” Andrea quips with a laugh of his own, “considering we haven’t yet been able to hide all the knives in the hotel restaurant. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Good thing you’ve got Gigi distracting him, huh?”

It’s odd, talking with Pippo like this, as if they’re actually friends. Andrea’s never been able to label them properly: teammates, fuckbuddies, enemies, _friends_? Nothing seems to quite fit, except in moments like this when it suddenly does.

“You doing okay?” Andrea asks after the moment of silence stretches into uncomfortable lengths, suddenly remembering that Pippo not saying anything might also mean he’s panicking inwardly. It wouldn’t be the first time Andrea missed the signs of an attack. “Need something? Water? Plasmon? A paper bag?”

Pippo shuts him up by kissing him, the touch of his lips against Andrea’s surprisingly gentle, nothing at all what Andrea is used to with him.

“—That was sudden,” Andrea comments dryly when they break to kiss. Pippo fits perfectly between his spread legs, their faces at exactly same height with Pippo standing while Andrea sits on the hood. He wraps his arms around Pippo’s neck when the striker tries to move away. “Did I say you could leave it at that? I happen to like this new spontaneous Inzaghi.”

The admission comes out without a conscious thought, and it leaves Andrea sputtering over his excuses – of course he doesn’t _like_ Pippo, that’s absolutely _ludicrous_.

Pippo shuts him up with another kiss, this one heavier, his tongue pushing its way into Andrea’s mouth and pressing against Andrea’s tongue eagerly. One of Pippo’s hands presses against the small of Andrea’s back, pulling him closer until his legs around Pippo’s hips are the only thing keeping him from falling off his assigned seat.

“Oh, I can be spontaneous for you,” Pippo informs him between the kisses, amusement in his low voice that sounds almost like a purr. Andrea is belatedly reminded that Pippo has always been anything but predictable when it comes to sex – the only predictable thing is that they always end up doing it, sooner or later, no matter how many times they decide to end it.

Andrea’s jeans feel uncomfortably tight just from the kissing – that’s what you get for following the coach’s official ‘no sex during the tournament’ regime. He’s never understood the point, really, when a good lay has always been the easiest way for him to relax before an important game.

(It’s the same for Pippo, too, which is only one of the reasons they keep coming back for more.)

Pippo unhooks Andrea’s legs from his hips after one more kiss, allowing him to move back just enough to sit on his own before crouching down in front of Andrea. “How much time did you say we’ve got?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe an hour.” Andrea’s voice is trembling with anticipation as Pippo opens the fly of his jeans and pulls them down to his hips, just low enough to get his cock out. A thought of getting caught crosses his mind – this is a public road, even if they’re yet to see any other car drive by – and against all odds, it only makes him harder.

“So, I guess we need to be quick.” Andrea can hear that damn smirk in his voice more than see it. He’s about to say something sarcastic, but the words fly out of his mind when Pippo takes him into his mouth, sucking the tip with clear intent before dropping deeper, swallowing half of Andrea’s cock at once.

“ _Fuck_.” It’s all Andrea can vocalize. He keeps forgetting how damn _good_ Pippo is at this. He reaches out and grabs a hold of Pippo’s soft hair, tugging on the dark strands just tight enough to be on the safe side of painful. Pippo hums around his cock in approval, the vibrations running all the way up Andrea’s spine.

If Pippo keeps this up, it’s only a matter of minutes before Andrea is going to come inside his mouth. The idea is tempting, but it also seems like a waste when they still have enough time to do so much more. So, Andrea tugs on Pippo’s hair and tells him in one breathy gasp, “Stop.”

For once, Pippo does as he’s told, licking the underside of Andrea’s cock one more time before standing up, slotting into his place between Andrea’s legs like he belongs there.

“Fuck me?” Andrea’s request comes out pleading, both hands now tangled in Pippo’s hair as he pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss, not giving him a chance to argue – as if he would, even if given a chance; Pippo is too easy for that.

Andrea slides down from the hood only long enough to wriggle out of his jeans and underwear, the clothes falling to the ground unceremoniously. He keeps his t-shirt on, just in case there’s a car driving by, and they need to pretend to have at least some level of modesty.

Pippo’s hands on his waist help him climb back on the car, the metal surprisingly cool against his bare ass in the ever-stifling evening heat. His legs wound back around Pippo’s waist without any guiding, and Andrea leans back against his elbows to give Pippo better access.

The first finger doesn’t even sting, helped along with the lube Pippo seems to carry with him no matter where he goes – like a fucking boy scout, always prepared – and the second one gives Andrea just a taste of what he’s been craving for. They’ve done this so many times over the years, Andrea has lost count – gone are the days when they needed to worry about hurting each other ahead of an important match.

“Go on, we haven’t got the whole day,” he urges Pippo on, pushing his hips down towards the fingers in attempt to get them deeper, even though he knows that’s not physically possible.

“You’re so impatient today,” Pippo tuts with an amused smile, but he pulls his hand away obediently and opens his own fly. The condom’s rolled on with practiced ease and Andrea has no time to whine about the lack of contact before Pippo takes a firmer hold on his hips, lifting them off the hood of the car and pushing inside him with one swift move.

A breath gets stuck in Andrea’s throat, stopping him from saying what exactly he’s thinking – something along the lines of, _holy shit that’s so fucking good don’t you dare fucking stop there –_ but fortunately Pippo needs no further instructions.

With only a few thrusts he finds that perfect, fast rhythm that rubs Andrea’s insides just right, pulling only halfway out with each thrust. Andrea’s elbows aren’t holding him up anymore, so he just lays back on the hood, not caring that his head keeps hitting the metal uncomfortably with each thrust.

Pippo is leaning forward, more with every push, until his t-shirt-clad chest is pressed against Andrea’s and he can just reach Andrea’s lips with his own. His long fingers wrap around Andrea’s erection between them and he starts jerking him off in rhythm with his thrusts, quickly pushing Andrea toward the edge.

“ _Fuck,_ Andrea,” Pippo gasps out – it’s always as erotic to hear his name from Pippo’s lips, like a fucking magic word – and he picks up his pace suddenly, only to still his movements completely after a few more thrusts, buried inside Andrea as he comes with a low groan.

Andrea is left hanging, his cock aching for release, but his body too spent to do anything about it himself. Fortunately, Pippo has never been a selfish partner when it comes to sex – wholly unlike his tendency to hog the ball on the pitch – so after catching his breath, he slides down Andrea’s body and eagerly takes him into his mouth again. Andrea hooks his legs around Pippo’s shoulders to keep his balance, hanging halfway off the car again.

It doesn’t take even a minute before he’s coming into Pippo’s mouth, a string of curse words falling off his lips unbidden.

Andrea has just enough time to pull on his jeans again before the lights of an approaching vehicle come into view, their saviours arriving in the form of a tow truck and a couple of pissed off rental car company employees who don’t speak a word of English.

It’s one of the few World Cup stories Andrea will keep to himself in the coming years; a precious memory he will keep coming back to long after their arrangement comes to an end.


	20. Falling for the Enemy

Sometimes Andrea considers himself to be the protagonist of some superhero saga – or maybe one of those old-school Playstation games they play with Sandro whenever one of them (usually Andrea, although he’ll never admit it) grows sick of losing on FIFA. You know the ones: the story-based adventures where the hero’s put through the wringer before he finally gets the girl – usually a blonde princess – and the treasure.

He sometimes tells these stories to Niccolò before his son falls asleep, stories of adventures and superpowers and very villainous villains. Angela is too young to appreciate such stories yet, but she does listen intently if she happens to be still awake.

In all those scenarios, Pippo is the mortal enemy number one. _Numero Uno._ The main boss you will have to defeat before you can move on to the next level, only to face him again once you reach the end of the next part. A Plasmon monster who guards his treasure like an overly jealous dragon, breathing fire and being a general nuisance on the hero’s voyage to greatness.

“But why is the monster so sad?” Niccolò asks him once.

“He’s not sad,” Andrea argues immediately, “he just enjoys torturing the hero, making his life more difficult than it already is. That’s what villains do.”

“But mom always says the people who are mean are actually just really sad and lonely,” his son insists – leave it to Deborah to teach actual good values to their children – his young eyes wide with conviction, “maybe all he needs is someone to be his friend? Maybe the hero could help him guard the Plasmons instead of trying to steal them?”

“There are some things that can’t be fixed with a hug,” Andrea says with a longsuffering sigh.

He should know, he’s hugged Pippo far too many times to count – he’s done much more than that – and still the striker remains the biggest pain in his ass. No matter how close he gets, it’s only a matter of time before everything blows up in his face again. “Sometimes the villains are too sad and lonely to be helped, I guess. So, they become cold inside. That’s why they do all those bad things.”

Niccolò is pouting, obviously disagreeing with the sentiment. Andrea probably should be proud of having raised such an empathic and sensitive child, even if most of the credit goes to Deborah.

“Sometimes, though,” Andrea continues as he strokes his son’s hair gently, realizing it’s time to play the good parent rather than the brutally honest one, “sometimes the monster might actually be calling for help, even if the hero is too slow to realize it. The monster might even be looking for someone to take care of him, he just can’t find the right words to say it.”

He remembers trying to help Pippo when he had his first panic attack. And the second. And all the others after that. The image is literally stuck in his brain, Pippo’s pale face and terrified eyes, his too shallow breaths not providing enough air for his lungs.

He remembers finding the fresh cuts on Pippo’s inner thighs – some infected, some still seeping blood – hidden from view from all but Andrea. He remembers trying to ask Pippo about it, only to be pushed away angrily.

“What can the hero do, then?” Niccolò is asking, big sad eyes looking up at Andrea. Figures his own son would be the one to remind Andrea he’s no hero – he can’t even stay true to his marriage; he can’t even help the man he cares about.

“I don’t know? He can try and be there for him.” Andrea is thinking back to a rare smile Pippo might throw at him during practice – a real smile, not his usual smirk – or a gentle hand resting on the small of his back when they fall asleep together. “It’s not going to be easy. The villain will definitely hurt him and betray him – and he will do the same – but maybe, in the end, that’s the only way for them to reach each other.”

“That sounds hard,” Niccolò says, a confused frown on his face, and Andrea thinks his son is far too young to be saying things like this, even if it’s all so very true.

“It is,” Andrea agrees softly and kisses Niccolò’s forehead to bid him good night, “but there are things between heroes and villains that can’t be easily solved. That’s why so many of them decide to stay enemies for life.”

“But you won’t. You’ll make him stop hurting. And then he won’t be sad anymore.” Niccolò beams up at him even through a yawn that pushes its way out. He’s missing both of his front teeth. “Because daddy’s the best hero ever!”

Andrea doesn’t feel like a hero when he goes to bed that night and curls up next to Deborah, kisses her blonde hair – the hair of a princess – and wishes her good night, but all the while his mind is elsewhere.

He falls asleep thinking of his sad, lonely enemy – who’s really not an enemy at all.


	21. Secrets

Andrea has long since forgotten what it feels like not to keep any secrets.

There are the obvious things that come with being a professional footballer: personal and professional issues you’re required to handle behind closed doors, all those sensitive things that are better off kept hidden from the ever-probing media. Transfer talks that might or might not come to pass – Real, Chelsea, Juventus – but that will nonetheless need to be kept secret until the time is right.

Then there are the incriminating secrets that came along when he decided to cheat on his wife (and long before that, if he’s being completely honest with himself). His sexuality, his unwanted infatuation with Pippo, and their decade-long affair that’s ranged over a rollercoaster of phases: from unresolved sexual tension, to grudging companionship they couldn’t quite call friendship, to emotional attachment Andrea could never quite admit even to himself.

Perhaps surprisingly, the secrets weighing on his marriage never came out. As far as Andrea knows, Deborah’s never even suspected he might be into men, which is probably why she also never noticed the tension between Andrea and Pippo when all three of them happened to be in the same room. But in the end, it made no difference, and the untold secrets pulling them apart ended up being the heaviest reason behind their divorce.

He’s never told about him and Pippo to anyone, but that doesn’t mean his old teammates from Milan don’t know about them. It’s hard to spend almost a decade in the same club, seeing each other every day – eating, sleeping, and training in the same facilities day after day, week after week – and not to know everything about each other.

Still, even though their old friends definitely have drawn their own conclusions, none of them knows the full extent of their history.

Sandro is probably the one who knows the most about their relationship.

Andrea never told him anything, not in so many words, but that’s mostly because it was not necessary. Sandro had figured everything out on his own, taking Andrea’s side without questioning his motives. It had been a relief, to know someone had his back, even if he knew he didn’t actually deserve it.

(Sometimes Andrea wonders if Pippo ever had anyone like that – someone he could talk to; someone who knew about them, and offered their support without judgement – or if he was left struggling on his own.)

When all is said and done – his transfer to Juve, the end of his non-relationship, the end of his marriage – Andrea finds himself alone with his secrets.

In a way, it’s a relief that no one at Juventus knows about him and Pippo. Well, except maybe Gigi, but that’s because he’s a nosy shithead. And then there’s Allegri, the bastard, who might have noticed something back in their Milan days, but who probably never realized what it was that he was seeing.

When the secret is his and his alone, it becomes easier to bury. There are days when Andrea doesn’t think of Pippo even once. There are also days when Andrea thinks back to their past relationship and thinks he’s finally over Pippo –fucking– Inzaghi.

And then there are the days when they are facing each other over the pitch – Andrea squeezed in the Juve line-up for a team photograph; Pippo standing alone at the sidelines, dressed in his designer suit, his tall but tense form filling all Andrea’s senses like there’s no one else in the stadium at all – and Andrea realizes he’s never going to be over this man.

There are all those larger-than-life secrets he will not voice, not even when Pippo corners him in the corridors after the match ends – after Juve beats this new struggling Milan, no surprises there – and they end up fucking in one of the empty dressing rooms, for old times’ sake.

_“I miss you. Letting you go was the worst mistake of my life.”_

Pippo kisses him, bites his lip, draws blood. His every movement is urgent and forceful, and Andrea welcomes the manhandling with open arms, because this is how they have always been.

_“I love you. I’ve loved you longer than you can even imagine.”_

Pippo licks his bleeding lip gently, apologetic, and the gentleness makes Andrea feel like crying. He doesn’t let the tears fall, though, because that would come too close to admitting his true emotions.

_“I want you. Today. Tomorrow. I will want you even twenty years from now.”_

Afterwards, they say meaningless words, _expected_ words – “it was good seeing you”, “good luck with the rest of the season”, “I’ll see you around” – and go their separate ways.

That night, Andrea will start planning his escape from Italy to the US.

The plan will remain a secret for many months to come. After that first night, Andrea will never again admit the decision had anything to do with Pippo.


	22. Weird Hotel Room Vibes

The night before the Champions League final in Athens, Andrea feels like the walls of his hotel room are caving in, threatening to crush Andrea between them and prevent him from playing the final altogether.

He rarely gets nervous about matches anymore – not to this extent, where he’s left jittery and restless, unable to concentrate on anything but the upcoming game. It’s Liverpool, again, the last thing standing between them and the Cup.

Usually he goes to Sandro when he’s feeling like this, challenges him to a match or a dozen on FIFA, but this time they don’t have the Playstation with them. And it’s too late, anyways: Andrea should already be asleep, just like Sandro probably – hopefully – is.

He still needs to get out of the hotel room, because it feels like the heavy silence in the room is suffocating him. The last time he felt like this was after Istanbul, and it doesn’t make any sense. They haven’t lost yet, so why is he feeling so powerless all of a sudden?

Andrea finds himself standing behind Pippo’s door. He’s not even surprised.

It was Pippo who helped him get through Istanbul, after all, even if it’s something they never talk about – they haven’t even mentioned _that night_ after it happened, both more than content pretending there’s nothing to talk about.

Sometimes Andrea finds himself wondering if it ever happened, or if he dreamed the whole thing.

Pippo opens the door after the third knock, dressed in grey sweatpants and black tank top. His hair is still wet from shower, carelessly swept back with long fingers, the locks looking tangled and messy from not having been brushed yet. He’s shaved too, the two-day stubble from their earlier flight nowhere to be seen.

Andrea takes all of this in in one swift look, eyes sweeping over Pippo’s form from head to toes; then he quickly checks himself and follows Pippo inside the room when the striker walks back in, leaving the door open like a wordless invitation.

There’s a laptop on the bed – Andrea is half-surprised Pippo has finally abandoned his old VHS films in favour of new technology – and Pippo sits back down next to it and hits the space bar, restarting whatever video he’d been watching before Andrea interrupted him.

There’s a mocking comment right on the tip of Andrea’s tongue – something about last-minute studying being for the wimps and the slobs – but he bites his tongue and instead walks over to Pippo without a word. He sits down next to Pippo on the bed, leaning his chest against Pippo’s arm and resting his chin against his shoulder. His hand finds a place on Pippo’s thigh without any conscious decision.

There’s Liverpool’s UCL semi-final playing on the computer screen, Andrea remembers watching the match live with Sandro and Rino.

“There’s a gap there,” Pippo points at the defence line during one of the set-pieces, “I think we can get through that if your aim’s on point.”

Andrea hums noncommittally, even though he knows Pippo is probably right. It’s a Pippo-sized gap, the kind you wouldn’t even dream of exploiting with any other striker. But Pippo is mad like that: he can do what nobody else would even try, by using sheer willpower and dumb luck.

He doesn’t utter a word, only watches as Pippo rewinds the video and starts the play from the top. If Pippo makes further comments, Andrea doesn’t acknowledge them.

It’s one of those pre-match routines Andrea has never understood: what good it does to watch the opponent now, when the tactics have already been decided and their preparations finished? But Pippo always does it without a fail, and he keeps scoring, so maybe there’s some wisdom to it.

They sit in surprisingly comfortable silence until the video comes to an end – interrupted too many times to count by Pippo to rewind and re-watch some important parts – and then finally Pippo shifts his position towards Andrea, lifting his arm so Andrea can settle under it, leaning comfortably against his side.

It reminds him of Istanbul, even though there was barely any touching back then. But the feeling is the same: it feels like just for this moment, they can actually understand each other. It feels unfamiliar to Andrea, but definitely not unwelcome.

“Nervous?” Pippo asks, his voice low, like he’s afraid of breaking the silence.

“—Fuck off,” Andrea replies belatedly, although his tone reveals no vehemence the words might imply. “I’m only here to make sure you’ll actually sleep before the match, shithead.”

“I appreciate that,” Pippo’s response betrays no lies as he shuts down the computer, using his free hand to close the top while his other arm wraps tighter around Andrea’s shoulders, long fingers threading through the tense muscles around Andrea’s upper arm. “But I’m gonna score no matter what. The stars are in alignment.”

Andrea snorts at the comment, his eyes finding the blasted Plasmon package sitting innocently on the nightstand. Those fucking baby biscuits – _sacred_ baby biscuits – that somehow seem to hold the power over the football gods.

“Aren’t you afraid I’m gonna steal those?” Andrea asks, impish smile finding its way to his lips despite his earlier nervousness. He meets Pippo’s gaze and nods towards the package, wholly unsupervised in case Andrea decides to take his chances in their years-long bet on who’s finally going to get Pippo’s Plasmons.

“I know you won’t,” Pippo counters, no doubts in the statement whatsoever, “because you’re freaking out over the match, and you need me to score those goals tomorrow.”

Andrea’s never been superstitious – he knows Pippo could score those goals without the Plasmons or the fucking star alignments – but now, when he meets Pippo’s steady gaze, he realizes Pippo is right. He’s not going to try and steal anything tonight, because this match is different, and Andrea can use all the luck and tricks they’ve got to spare.

“I’m _not_ freaking out,” he grumbles instead of saying any of those thoughts aloud.

“Of course you’re not.” Pippo steals a kiss, just a brush of lips against Andrea’s that’s gone so fast Andrea is left wondering if it even happened. “Wanna stay the night?”

Andrea accepts the invitation under the pretence he wants to make sure Pippo really goes to sleep instead of spending the night doing some kind of magic tricks to ensure their victory.

What he doesn’t admit – least of all to himself – is that this is the reason he came to Pippo’s door in the first place. Because he’s never slept as comfortably in anyone else’s bed but Pippo’s, and tonight that’s the comfort he was craving, even if he has no words to say it out loud.


	23. Overcoming Phobias

As far as he can remember, Pippo’s life has been riddled with irrational fears and thoughts.

His mother has told him a story of his early childhood, of how he was so afraid of water that it was a constant battle to have him take a bath. In retrospect, it was probably the fear of drowning rather than water, considering Pippo still has nightmares of drowning on occasion, but he has no issues with water in general.

This fear became more manageable only after Simone was born and Pippo had taken it upon himself to protect his baby brother from the woes of the world, including the horror that was bubble baths.

Thinking back, this is probably the origin of his compulsive need to control everything around him.

As he grew older, new fears kept springing up out of thin air.

At first, the fears were concrete: there was a period when he refused to play outside in the forest after he discovered a tick in their dog’s fur and found out these little buggers could also bite humans; another time he took the stairs everywhere for a month because he could not see where the power to the elevators came from.

As the fears grew more abstract – fear of failure, fear of letting his team down, fear of injuring himself or others – he realized the easiest way to battle these disturbing thoughts was to take control of every aspect of his life.

It had started with simple things that were easy enough to control: eating only specific foods, wearing only a certain pair of boots, counting steps, shots, Plasmons… By the time he realized it took him hours each day to finish these simple routines, it was too late to back down.

Back when his first attempt at a ‘serious’ relationship went down in figurative flames, Pippo realized it was much easier to stick to his routines when there were no other people putting their own spoons into the mix – other people were always an unpredictable force, and so were emotions, his or anyone else’s.

It’s no coincidence Pippo never settled down with anyone after that first try. Andrea can call him a slut all he wants, but for Pippo casually sleeping around is just another way of ensuring he’s not hurting anyone else, let alone himself.

—and then, of course, there is Andrea.

Pippo has never been able to figure out exactly how big a role Andrea has played in the escalation of his compulsions. He doesn’t _blame_ Andrea, of course, more than aware it’s his own problem if he can’t stop thinking about the younger man.

From the start, Andrea has been something utterly uncontrollable, pushing himself inside Pippo’s safe zone and turning his well-regulated life upside down.

Pippo keeps coming up with new ways of coping with the obsessive thoughts, each one more extreme than the previous, but it makes no difference. Andrea is still there, and no matter what he does, Pippo keeps coming back for more.

It’s only when he’s with Andrea that the fears stop plaquing his mind and he can just _be_. Those are the moments that keep bringing him back, time after time. But once Andrea leaves – and he always does – the fears always come back tenfold.

He’s scared of Andrea seeing what a mess he is and walking away from him.

He’s even more scared of Andrea seeing what he is and staying regardless.

Above all, he’s terrified he’s going to hurt Andrea, physically or emotionally – or both.

There are so many crippling fears in play when it comes to Andrea, it takes Pippo years to realize that it all comes down to one thing: attachment, emotions, something deep and scary that he refuses to call love.

It’s only after years of medication, psychologists, and behavioural therapy that Pippo realizes what he has been feeling all along. By then, it’s far too late to fix the damage that’s already been done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a conscious decision not to actually call what Pippo is going through a phobia, because it's more or less all connected to his OCD.  
> Please also be aware I'm no expert in either disorder, and all my knowledge comes from internet and my quite limited personal experiences.


	24. Haunted House Tour

There’s a summer fair in Lake Como, and rumour has it their haunted house is the scariest in Italy.

Niccolò is adamant, in the way only an 8-year-old can be – all his friends are going, so he _needs_ to go too, otherwise he’s going to be bullied for the rest of the semester, and _you wouldn’t want that for your only son, now would you, daddy?_

Really, Andrea has no choice in the matter. On a warm Tuesday, only days before his preseason with Juve is scheduled to start, he packs his children into their family-sized van in Turin and heads for the highways leading north.

He stops by in Milan, first to pick up Sandro and his children, and then Pippo and his nephew, because apparently Simone is too busy with the Lazio youth team to entertain his own son – or maybe Pippo is just a pushover who can never say no to Tommaso’s puppy eyes.

The drive to Lake Como is eventful, to say the least. Pippo is driving, because he absolutely refused to get into the car while Andrea was behind the wheel – Sandro had raised his eyebrows in obvious interest, having never heard the whole story behind their road trip in Germany – while Andrea takes the passenger side, claiming it’s _his car_ , leaving poor Sandro stuck in the back with the five children all babbling on top of each other.

Andrea keeps stealing glances at Pippo all the way to Lake Como. It’s been only a few months since he finally admitted to himself that he’s head over heels in love with Pippo. It still feels weird to actually think about it.

It’s also been two months since he bid farewell to Milanello for good. It’s the first time he’s seen Pippo since then – Sandro was the one who’d invited him in the first place, without even asking for Andrea’s permission. Andrea’s not sure what he would’ve said if he had asked.

“How’s Turin?” Pippo asks when they’re maybe halfway there, expertly ignoring the argument that’s about to break in the back seat, with Niccolò and Tommaso ganging up on the three younger kids and doing their best to scare them half to death with stories of the haunted house.

“Fine, I guess,” Andrea answers with a shrug, pointedly turning to stare at the road instead of Pippo, who must have noticed Andrea was looking at him. “Not that different from Milan, to be honest. Gigi’s been showing me around.”

“They’re gonna love you. The fans.” Pippo throws an offhand smile in Andrea’s direction. “It’s— not the same as Milanello, surely. The feeling’s different. But it’s nice.”

Andrea had forgotten Pippo used to play for Juve. In his head, Pippo and Milan just go together, it’s odd to think about him before that.

“I heard you renewed your contract,” Andrea changes subjects swiftly, reluctant to talk about his transfer when it’s the sole reason he can’t see Pippo anymore. “Aren’t you getting too old for active duty?”

“Oy, who are you calling old?” Pippo laughs and then yells at the backseat, “Tommaso, stop teasing the young ones and fight someone your own size.”

This comment only leads to Niccolò and Tommaso ganging up against Sandro instead of the younger kids. Pippo seems pleased enough.

“It’s only one more year,” he picks up the earlier topic easily. “Didn’t wanna let last season to be the end, especially after everyone kept saying I was finished with that injury.”

Andrea is secretly pleased, because at least now he’ll get to see Pippo during their matches against each other.

They finish the journey without another word, while Sandro fights off the child-sized octopi hanging off him from every direction. Once they’re there, Sandro exclaims he will be driving back, let Pippo worry about the monsters on the way home.

The fair is filled to the brim with people, and the line to the goddamned haunted house looks like it’s going to take eternity just to get to the entrance.

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re going there,” Sandro informs them, his 3-year-old sitting on his shoulders while the 4-year-old hangs off his arms, scared eyes taking suspicious glances toward the haunted house. “If you don’t mind, we’re gonna go and sit in the coffee cup ride for an hour or so.”

“Uncle Sandro is a coward,” Niccolò sniggers and turns on his heels, dragging Tommaso and Pippo toward the end of the line.

Andrea ends up sending Angela with ‘Uncle Sandro’ and his children to the more age-appropriate parts of the fair before he joins the other three, resigned to his destiny of standing in line for the rest of the day.

It’s odd, spending time with his children and Pippo at the same time. For the longest time, Andrea’s been able to separate these two parts of his life almost completely, which always made it easier to live with himself even when he knew he was betraying his marriage vows and his whole family by extension whenever he was with Pippo.

Now Pippo is standing there, laughing indulgently at something the kids are telling him, one hand resting on Niccolò’s shoulder and another on Tommaso’s. The clash between Andrea’s two lives is so heavy he’s not sure he’s going to survive it.

Andrea lets the children take care of small talk while they wait for their turn in the haunted house. It gives him the perfect opportunity to study Pippo’s lined face and the dark bags under his eyes. Pippo really is growing old, Andrea realizes with a start, and so is he.

They’re both so different from the people they used to be when they first started sleeping together, and yet Andrea still finds Pippo as impossibly attractive as ever, when he sees his trademark smirk or hears his dry comments to the story his nephew is recounting.

“You, wait here!” Niccolò exclaims when they’re finally granted entry to the haunted house, fixing a firm glare (Pirlo™) at Andrea. “No way I’m gonna tell my classmates I went to the haunted house with my _dad_.”

Niccolò and Tommaso sprint off ahead of them, leaving Andrea alone with Pippo — which is probably the scariest part of the whole experience for Andrea.

“Aren’t you glad you don’t have your own kids,” Andrea jokes, trying to keep his tone light as they start walking through the narrow corridor. The house is almost eerily quiet, nothing you would expect from your standard haunted house ride in the summer fair. Pippo is right next to him, so close their arms and hands keep brushing against each other.

The proximity is putting Andrea on edge, which is the only reason he startles when there’s a sudden breeze of cold air brushing past his left ear. There’s a sound of someone screaming ahead of them.

“I’ve always liked kids,” Pippo says with a shrug Andrea can feel against his own shoulder rather than see. “I just never thought I’d be capable of raising them myself, you know, with my disorder and all. Thank God for Simone taking one for the team, right?”

Two years back, Pippo would’ve never brought up his disorder on his own accord. Andrea finds himself smiling to himself, thankful of the dark room hiding his expression from Pippo.

Then there’s something cold touching his neck and Andrea practically jumps into Pippo, a curse word escaping his lips under his breath. He can feel Pippo wrapping an arm around his shoulders and hear Pippo’s laughter against his ear. _It’s not helping._

“Never knew you were so jumpy,” Pippo comments, quiet amusement seeping into his every word. “Don’t you have a reputation to maintain?”

“Shut up, shithead,” Andrea retorts and pushes Pippo’s arms off his shoulder. If his fingers remain wrapped around Pippo’s hand afterwards, neither of them comments on it. “If you ever mention this to another living soul—”

“My lips are sealed.”

Pippo might squeeze Andrea’s hand. Andrea might find it a tiny bit comforting. There’s suddenly a loud screaming sound surrounding them as they step into the next room.

They finish the tour in silence, Andrea’s hand encompassed inside Pippo’s larger one. It feels deceptively intimate, like something forbidden even after all they have done before this moment. Andrea is torn between never wanting to let go and dropping Pippo’s hand like it’s burning him.

They separate reluctantly only when they reach the exit. Their eyes meet momentarily, and for a second Andrea imagines seeing the same longing in Pippo’s eyes that is strangling his own insides.

The moment is gone as soon as they step outside and are bombarded by Niccolò and Tommaso’s questions. “What took you so long? Don’t tell me you were _scared_.”

“It was your daddy, he was screaming like a girl the whole time!” Pippo blabs immediately, the all too familiar smirk back in place. Traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, this is far too fluffy to be posted for the angst challenge. But then again, I maintain the opinion that Haunted House prompts can never be anything but fluffy, so I'm not to blame here. Well, except if we're talking about houses with actual ghosts, but it's not like Pippo would ever let his superstitious ass to be dragged into one of _those_.


	25. Scandal

Pippo has had his fair share of scandals over the years.

Well, he says scandals, but in reality they’ve been mere scoops in forgettable tabloids – a girlfriend here, a one night lay there, an recurring STD rumour that pops up every so often when the reporters have nothing better to write about – all fast to be written and even faster to be forgotten.

He takes the ripping and the joking of his teammates without complaint, because at least _he_ knows what really happened.

At least it’s only the silly things – the things that don’t matter in the end – that get written about, instead of his disorder or – God forbid – his involvement with Andrea, or any other man for that matter. Those are the real shit, the kind of scandals that can end careers.

Andrea’s never on the tabloids, his squeaky-clean family man image protecting him from the nastier rumours.

Sometimes Pippo resents it – how Andrea can get away with cheating on his wife for a _decade_ and not get caught doing it – but more often he’s willing to admit he would be the first one to put himself between Andrea and the press, if it ever came to that.

It figures that when the scandal finally hits in the form of Andrea’s divorce, Pippo is too far away to do anything about it. There are stories, rumours, scoops of cheating – of rich women in golf clubs and of scantily clad girls in random pubs – and no one’s there to put those stories straight.

Once he writes a text to Andrea – _‘It’ll blow over. It always does.’_ – but he doesn’t send it, because there’s a small voice in the back of his mind telling him it’s none of his business.

Who knows, maybe all the stories are true, and Andrea’s been sleeping around much more than Pippo gives him credit for.

Perhaps Andrea has replaced Pippo with someone more readily available – or not just _one_ , by the looks of it. It’s not like they ever had anything deeper. Pippo was just there, convenient for Andrea when he needed to blow off some steam.

Deep down, Pippo knows it’s not like that.

Deep down, he knows it’s only his own bitterness talking.

Deep down, he knows Andrea did care about him, otherwise he would’ve walked away long before he did.

But what else can he do, when the other option is so much more terrifying?


	26. Intruder on the Pitch

It’s no secret that Pippo likes his life planned and coordinated, on and off the pitch.

Many people (Simone, in particular, as well as every single coach he’s even encountered) have told him he can’t control everything, especially not on the football field: there’s always the unexpected element – a foul, an unfair offside call (or a fair one, Pippo knows those very well), an irregular pounce of the ball, or a pitch invader.

Of course, Pippo knows all this; he knows he can’t control every single thing during the match, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t even try.

He watches their opponents over and over again, studies their weaknesses and strengths, and then he moves this knowledge to the training pitch, drilling the same movements into his muscle memory, until he can do them even in his sleep.

That’s his way of dealing with pressure: once he knows _how_ to score against their next opponent, he _will_ score, and that means his part of the job will be done – this way, he won’t be thwarted by a sudden turn of events that might mess up everyone else’s game plan.

Pippo will still play by his own plan, and _he will win_. No intruder will ever change that.

However, his master plan doesn’t count for one very specific intruder that is Andrea Pirlo— no, scratch that, the real intruder is Pippo’s own feelings toward the midfielder than the man himself.

From the moment they first meet in Milanello, Pippo is stuck – hopelessly enchanted by this outwardly awkward young man, just barely old enough not to be called a kid anymore, who upon closer inspection turns out to be not only one of the most talented players Pippo has ever encountered, but also the biggest brat he’s even played with.

It messes up Pippo’s game plan, the way he can’t stop stealing glances at Pirlo while they play together; the way he can’t shake the knowledge of his presence, aware of his every step, every pass, every feint and nutmeg.

For the first time in his career, Pippo has a counterpart in the midfield that can pull off every single pass in his game plan, and yet he finds himself faltering – missing easy balls he would’ve scored under any other circumstances.

It’s worse than any pitch invader could ever be, because it’s all in Pippo’s own head, and his own head is one of the few things he’s never been able to control.

“Get your head out of your ass, Inzaghi!” Pirlo yells at him after he fumbles with another perfect long ball delivered right where he’d asked for it. The offside flag is up too, and Pippo has no energy to even complain to the match official about it.

“Speak for yourself, shithead! No one could’ve gotten to that ball!”

_Lies_ , Pippo could have gotten it. He _should_ have gotten it.

“Fucker,” Pirlo grumbles under his breath as he runs past Pippo towards their defensive end.

Pippo’s eyes trail after him, the utterly unwanted feeling of longing forming a tight knot inside his chest. At that moment, he knows only that he _needs_ to have this infuriating man; but as soon as the moment passes, he knows just as certainly that he can never have him.

That’s the real problem with the intruders brought on by his own malfunctioning brain: these intruders cannot be caught by stadium security, so they will stay right there, running every step along with him, and he can do nothing to stop them.


	27. Missing a Penalty Shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the [Milan - Bologna](https://youtu.be/OcxpuQ0L04M) match in May 2003.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm going off Transfermarkt's penalty statistics here, because during 2002/2003 season I was still living in the stone age with no steady internet connection, hence I have no recollection of any Milan penalties from that time.

The match is going their way, for once.

They’re controlling the game – Andrea converts a penalty just twenty minutes into the match, Seedorf doubles the lead with a long-range effort, and Inzaghi scores the third from Andrea’s assist in the second half – and it feels like for once they can breathe more easily.

Milan’s never been one to thrive in Serie A, no matter what they keep telling themselves. Their league season has gone downhill in the last two months, while they’ve ironically enough managed to reach the Champions League final all at the same time.

Inzaghi is laughing freely, a childlike excitement on his face that Andrea has only seen when he scores. He hugs Andrea, the touch lingering, and Andrea finds himself leaning into the embrace instinctively.

For a second, there’s a silent yearning – a knot forming inside his chest and warmth puddling in the pit of his stomach – but it’s gone as soon as it appears.

It really is a mystery, how Andrea has formed such a close connection with Inzaghi on the pitch, considering they can’t stand each other off it.

When they’re playing, he often finds himself almost smiling at the striker’s antics – playfully yelling at him to keep his floozy ass onside for once – and then in the next moment he places a perfect pass that only Inzaghi could ever reach.

It’s hard to hate the man when he keeps scoring.

“For the next one, I’m going to kiss you,” Inzaghi jokes around as they move on from the celebrations, his teasing smirk hitting Andrea somewhere between his crotch and abdomen in the best possible way. He knows what he’s going to think about tonight when he jerks off.

(He will never, ever, admit to anyone what Inzaghi’s proximity is doing to his body. Not in a million years.)

“Dream on, shithead!” he tells Inzaghi with a grin of his own and Inzaghi flips him the bird with a laugh. Rino makes a gagging face behind Inzaghi’s back, eyes boring into Andrea’s skull, like it’s _his_ fault Inzaghi is such a fucking flirt.

The moment is broken when Bologna scores in the next fucking minute, reminding Andrea they shouldn’t be celebrating too soon, not while the match is still on.

Inzaghi wins another penalty, going down in the box – because that’s what he does, whenever he’s not busy scoring.

“This one’s mine,” Inzaghi informs Andrea, meeting his eyes squarely, when the midfielder moves to take the ball to the spot. “I’ve got a kiss to win.”

The eye contact makes Andrea’s stomach turn over, sudden anxiousness and arousal filling him every nerve. It feels too real, the adrenaline of the match making him forget all the reasons he has to despise this man.

Andrea _could_ argue the point. Inzaghi rarely takes the spot-kicks, and for a good reason – he’s never been known for his pinpoint accuracy; his goal scoring prowess lies elsewhere. He’s only scored one penalty this season (out of only two), while Andrea has bagged every single one he’s taken.

But for that one moment of madness, Andrea decides to call his bluff.

Inzaghi takes the spot, suddenly looking jittery and lost, and Andrea realizes he’s not going to score even before he takes the shot. It’s a weak shot, straight at the diving keeper. Andrea releases a breath he was holding, biting out a sarcastic remark about having to do everything himself.

He jogs over to give Inzaghi a comforting pat on the shoulder, but the striker only shrugs his hand off angrily.

The whole air around him has changed in that instant. Andrea should be used to that – Inzaghi’s moods are so changeable, like the wind, easy to excite, easy to anger: it’s all about scoring, like it’s the only thing that even matters to him.

“Too bad about the kiss,” Andrea quips when they walk off the pitch – victorious, for once, Bologna’s chase not hard enough to give them any trouble in the end – “I was looking forward to that.”

“Fuck off, Pirlo,” Inzaghi grumbles and picks up his pace, leaving Andrea behind in the corridor. And just like that, they’re back to normal, hating each other’s guts, their strange comradery only strong enough to last on the pitch.

(That night, Andrea will still jerk off to the thought of Inzaghi’s lips on his.)

(Inzaghi will never again volunteer to take a penalty.)


	28. Fear

Pippo has never been afraid of being alone.

In fact, being alone is his default status – it’s his most natural state of being, the only way of keeping the status quo of his life; the only way for him to know that everything happening in his life is up to his own actions and no one else’s.

Back when he was still struggling with his daily compulsions, the being alone part was his escape: he would spend hours inside his own confined space, following meticulous routines he didn’t want to – or _couldn’t_ , had he ever wanted to – share with anyone else.

Even with Andrea, the fear of him _staying_ was always bigger than the fear of him leaving, because only when he was out of sight, could Pippo focus his attention on something he knew he could control: at first it was counting and organizing, later it escalated to burning and cutting.

He still has the physical scars to remind him of that fear, even if he’s finally found the right balance – finally he feels he’s truly in control, in a way that cannot be shaken by failures or losses or sackings. Or by Andrea rejecting him.

He’s come to realize that letting Andrea go when he did was the best thing he could possibly do, because it’s what they both needed – only by separation could they really come to terms with what they want from each other.

Pippo needed those years alone, to learn to accept himself, despite all his misgivings and mental issues. He knows he’s never going to be healthy, not in the real sense of the word, but he’s learned to cope with his disorder, to live a full life instead of dreading the next outbreak.

Andrea needed those years alone, to realize how much he was hurting his wife by staying with her after the feelings died out – it’s one of the things Pippo never forgave himself for, enabling Andrea’s cheating for all those years – and to realize that maybe, possibly, he might need Pippo as much as Pippo needs him.

The last thought is what _really_ scares Pippo.

Andrea is coming back to Italy soon, his little escapade in the States finally coming to an end. They haven’t talked since Andrea left, not more than a few words anyways, and all of those because Bobo loves video chatting when he’s around either of them.

(Bobo once told Pippo Andrea was missing him. Pippo refused to listen.)

Now there’s the testimonial match coming up, to celebrate Andrea’s fantastic career, and Pippo is of course invited – all of them are, the whole Milan team from the golden years – and Pippo thinks he might finally be ready to face his feelings.

He’s not so sure he’s ready to face Andrea’s, but he keeps that thought at bay with sheer willpower.

He’s not afraid of Andrea rejecting him. He’s faced rejection before, _especially_ from Andrea.

He’s not afraid of being left alone. Being alone has never been the problem.

He’s not afraid of losing control again, even if his therapist tells him it’s a real possibility if he dives in head first. He didn’t lose control when Andrea left Milan; he didn’t lose control when Andrea left Italy; and he knows he’s not going to lose control just because he’s coming back.

But he _is_ afraid. He’s possibly more afraid than he has ever been in his life.

He’s never been in love, not openly, not with anyone. Definitely not with someone he _knows_ he could have, if only they both are willing to admit what they’re feeling.

And that’s where the fear stems from: he’s scared that Andrea will choose him, that they will finally reveal themselves to each other in all their vulnerability, and that it still won’t be enough.

Seventeen years is a long time to get to know someone. It’s even longer time to love someone. And to Pippo, who’s never opened up to anyone before, it feels just long enough time to lose someone.


	29. Career-ending Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Milan - Palermo in November 2010, when Pippo suffered the cruciate ligament injury many thought would end his career.

Andrea has to look away when Pippo goes down, but he can’t stop looking when the striker leaves the pitch, no more than fifteen minutes after coming on as a sub.

He can tell by the look on Pippo’s face that it’s bad – the tears in his eyes tell are as much from pain as they are from frustration.

Andrea knows Pippo far too well not to know the difference: there are minor knocks, ones that you can run off; then there are small injuries, the ones that put you in the sidelines for a few games but then you’ll bounce back even stronger; and then there are the kind of injuries that make even Pippo Inzaghi cry – those are the ones that can end careers.

He wants to follow Pippo out of the stadium, to be there for him when the club doctor examines him. He’s only a sub, and their last substitution was just used to replace Pippo with Robinho, so there’s no point in staying on the bench anyways.

He stays glued to the spot, though, watching as Robinho scores another goal for them. That goal should have been Pippo’s – Andrea should be watching Pippo’s endless enthusiasm at the face of scoring, but instead he’s sitting abandoned on the bench, stuck with the image of Pippo’s tears in his mind’s eye.

But even as there’s an insistent voice in his head telling him to go to Pippo – telling him Pippo needs him there to comfort him – there’s also another voice, this one telling him he’d only make a fool of himself, because it’s not him Pippo needs or wants to comfort him.

It’s something Andrea needs to keep reminding himself about: the fact that they’re fucking each other doesn’t mean they’re _close_.

In the seven years they’ve been sleeping together, Andrea has never seen Pippo cry. Not for real, anyways; he doesn’t count the frustrated tears on the pitch, because that’s a feeling they all share – it’s not Pippo being vulnerable, not like he can be behind closed doors.

Andrea has seen him vulnerable – oh yes, in more than one occasion – but those moments all have one thing in common: it’s at those moments when Pippo pushes him away most vehemently. There have never been tears, not while Andrea is there. He’d even go as far as claim that Pippo doesn’t know how to cry in front of others.

(Andrea’s not too good at it himself.

The only time Pippo has seen _him_ cry was in Istanbul, all those years ago. Andrea’s buried that memory so deep he can’t even tell if Pippo had acknowledged his tears in any way.)

Pippo is gone by the time they go back to the dressing room after the game; he was probably taken straight to hospital to make sure his knee is treated in the best possible way.

Andrea is almost relieved he doesn’t need to see him tonight.

The nasty voice inside his head is calling him a coward, obnoxiously asking the _what if_ ’s Andrea is not ready to face.

What if this would have been the time Pippo finally accepted his help?

What if Pippo had really needed him?

What if this was the last time that they shared the pitch (or the bench) together?

What if Pippo will never come back?

What if _this was it_?

Andrea shakes the apprehension off his shoulders and reminds himself Pippo is one stubborn bastard – there’s no way he’s going to let one bad knee to end his career. He’d much rather score his last goal on crutches than call it a day when any reasonable person would.

That thought is the one that helps him sleep that night, even as he dreams of Pippo’s tears and of comforting embraces they have never been able to share.

 

 

(Half a year later, in the match versus Cagliari, Pippo will return to pitch against all odds. _That’s_ the final match they will ever play together wearing the Milan jerseys.

After that match, Andrea will cry and Pippo will hold him, but neither of them will say anything, because they both know their time is up.

Andrea’s made his decision to go and Pippo has made his decision to stay.

Pippo never cries. For some reason, that single fact makes leaving even harder for Andrea.)


	30. Retirement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Pirlo's Testimonial match. Includes explicit sexual content.

“You just had to make it a hattrick, didn’t you? Show-off.”

Andrea can’t hold back a smile when Pippo spins around to face him, the match ball still in his hands. To Andrea’s disappointment, he doesn’t look surprised in the least to find Andrea waiting for him in the quietened San Siro corridor.

They’ve both changed out of their match kits, now dressed up and ready to head for Andrea’s official retirement party – that’s to say, to get piss drunk with the old gang and reminisce over the years when they could still head a ball without hurting their backs or knees in the process.

Andrea feels just a hint of disappointment that they didn’t get to play on the same side, but at the same time he’d enjoyed every second of facing Pippo during the second half of his testimonial.

Pippo never stops scoring, not even at 44 years of age, with shot knees and aching back – although he’d never admit to feeling old, Andrea knows as much – and that _hunger_ is what makes it impossible for Andrea to look away. It’s that hunger in every movement Pippo makes that awakens the hunger inside Andrea too.

“It was a match _for you_ — you really thought I’d be holding back for such an occasion?”

Pippo meets his eyes squarely. The same old smirk is still there, the same one that used to drive Andrea crazy all through his early twenties, but also one that still makes his heart skip a beat or two. It’s been seventeen years, and Andrea still finds Pippo the most attractive person on earth.

“It was _my match_ , the least you could’ve done is let me win.” Andrea grins despite his best effort to keep a straight face.

“You’ve never asked me to go easy on you before. You must be getting old, Andrea,” Pippo replies, one raised eyebrow challenging Andrea to argue the point. Even with the smirk, even with the taunting, there’s still so much warmth in his gaze Andrea doesn’t remember from before, it makes him wonder if it has always been there – was he just too blind to see it?

“Aren’t we all?” he chuckles wistfully and tilts his head to the side, holding the eye-contact, because maybe it’s too hard to say out loud all the feelings he’s been holding back for years, but at least he can put it all in a smile he could never afford back in the day. “But it’s not all bad, is it? There’re some things you can only realize with time, after all.”

“Like what?” Pippo asks but Andrea doesn’t need to answer that, because Pippo is stepping closer even as he speaks.

The ball drops from Pippo’s hands to the floor without either of them paying it any mind, and Andrea finds himself backed against the wall, Pippo’s long fingers gripping both his arms, holding him against the cold concrete.

The kiss that follows is hard, bordering on desperation, reminiscent of the kisses of their first years when neither of them knew how to hold back.

Except unlike those first years, there’s no anger in the kisses; not even when Pippo bites Andrea’s lip and draws a pained gasp from him, before their lips are crushed back together, tongues meeting in the middle, the passion and hunger and longing bleeding into every movement.

Andrea feels like he can’t breathe, all his attention fixated on Pippo’s intoxicating lips, his brain not functioning enough to remind him how to draw breath through his nose. Still, pulling away and taking in the necessary air is the last thing in his mind, because he’s been waiting so long for this.

Maybe he’s also afraid of what’s going to be said when they break apart.

“We need to have a talk,” Pippo gasps out against Andrea’s lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to take a quick breath before he covers Andrea’s mouth with his again.

They’re pressed up against each other, and the constant feel of Pippo’s lean body against his is making Andrea lose the last threads of conscious thought. Somewhere, in the very back of his mind, a little voice is telling him they’re going to get caught here, out in the open, where anyone could walk in on them – a friend, a foe, a reporter, the cleaning lady, even his own son – but the voice is not loud enough to make him want to stop.

_Let them see._

He’s retired; he’s finally free to do whatever the hell he pleases. And that means kissing himself senseless with the one and only Pippo—fucking—Inzaghi. The man of all his dreams – _literally_ , for the past seventeen years – the man who’s made him so angry and so confused, and all because he could not recognize what it was he was really feeling.

Pippo finally releases his hold on Andrea’s arms and moves his hands up to his face, caressing his bearded jawline, cupping his cheeks between the calloused palms and long fingers. Andrea has always loved Pippo’s hands, and not only for what they can do between his legs.

Andrea gasps for breath loudly when Pippo pulls back, breaking the contact of their lips. He is keeping his eyes closed, his breathing uneven and erratic, both from the arousal and the lack of air. He is waiting for Pippo to kiss him again, but instead he can hear a soft chuckle that makes his eyes snap open.

Pippo is still so close; close enough that Andrea can feel his breath against his lips. But he’s not closing the distance, only watching Andrea with an unfamiliar smile – a real smile, not the ever-present smirk – and Andrea has no idea what to make of it.

“They’re waiting for us at the restaurant,” Pippo reminds him in a soft whisper, fingers stroking Andrea’s beard gently in a huge contrast to the hard kisses. “We should get going. It’s your party, after all.”

“Fuck them,” Andrea grits out, his voice raspy and throat aching, the lack of air catching up to him. “Let them wait. I’ve waited too, much longer than they ever will.”

There’s an empty locker room at the end of the corridor, one of those that are used by the visiting teams facing Milan or Inter. It’s not the first time they’ve fucked there, and they know their way around with fifteen years of experience. The door’s unlocked, and they slip in without anyone noticing, Andrea’s hand firmly wrapped around Pippo’s.

“We really need to have that talk, Andrea,” Pippo tells him, a mix of amusement and apprehension shining from his eyes. They’re just like they used to be, sneaking around San Siro, edged on by the sexual tension and pure desire — but they’re also different, because they’re older, wiser, and more aware than ever that this is not only physical anymore.

“We will,” Andrea answers and claims Pippo’s lips into another kiss, taking the control of the situation, and Pippo lets him do it with no complaint. “I promise. We will talk. Soon.” He says the words between the kisses, a gentle hand leading Pippo backwards until he’s pressed up against the opposite wall. “I’ve missed you, Pippo.”

He hears the sudden gasp, and Andrea can’t say which one is the cause of it, his honest words or his hand that’s cupping Pippo’s trouser-clad crotch. Pippo is hard, his body responding to Andrea’s just like it used to back in the day, like it was only yesterday they last did this, instead of almost three years ago.

“I’ve also missed _this_ ,” he whispers against Pippo’s ear before he trails his lips along his impossibly long throat, scrapes his teeth against the Adam’s apple, and then bites the skin just below his jawline, drawing another gasp from his lips.

He fumbles with the belt, and it takes almost too long – long enough to make him huff out in frustration – before he manages to unbuckle it. The fly of Pippo’s trousers is much easier, and Andrea lets out a soft, triumphant laugh when he finally pushes the trousers down to Pippo’s thighs.

That’s as far as he gets, as Pippo takes a hold of his face again and presses his open mouth against his, tongue brushing against Andrea’s lower lip before it moves to caress Andrea’s tongue hungrily. It’s wet and dirty, something you wouldn’t even think hot at first, but there’s no other word Andrea can think of to describe it.

Pippo has always been a great kisser – Andrea remembers sometimes wondering how much of it is natural talent, and how much comes from experience.

Andrea’s own trousers are feeling far too tight for comfort, and he knows for a fact they won’t have enough patience or endurance to actually fuck tonight. Never mind the party and all their friends waiting for them; Andrea’s been waiting for Pippo to touch him for so long, he’s well aware he won’t need much more than that one touch to come.

Andrea’s own belt comes off much easier than Pippo’s, the movements coming from muscle memory even as he returns Pippo’s hungry kisses with equal fervour. He moans into the kiss as he pushes one of his hands inside his own briefs, pushing them down in a hurry, giving his cock one good stroke to ease the constant ache of his arousal.

“Straight to the point, huh?” Pippo grits out with a laugh when Andrea jerks his hips against his impatiently, standing almost on tiptoes to make sure their cocks press together despite their height difference. The complaint isn’t too convincing, considering it’s followed by a grunt of pleasure.

“I’d love to take my time, _darling_ ,” – the old pet name, always spoken like the worst possible insult, but now it brings them back to the best times of their youth, to all the times they’ve found themselves in this same dressing room – “but it’s been three goddamned years and I’ve got no patience for your shit anymore.”

“By all means,” Pippo is laughing out loud now, his head thrown back to expose more of his neck for Andrea’s lips, “don’t let me stop you. _Please_.” The last word comes out as a breathy moan when Andrea wraps his fingers around their aligned cocks, just tight enough to be on the wrong side of comfortable. Pippo only bucks his hips against his hand, the movement creating even more delicious friction to their cocks. “Holy shit, Andrea.”

There are so many things Andrea wants to tell Pippo, thoughts rushing freely through his mind as he keeps stroking them both with increasing urgency _—“I don’t want to lose you again”—“I’ve missed you”—“I’m sorry for leaving”—“I love you”_ — but none of those confessions come out, because it’s not the right time for them. Instead, he only catches Pippo’s lips into another kiss and lets it convey all his feelings. They keep kissing until Pippo groans against Andrea’s lips and comes all over his hand.

“Let me,” Pippo says against Andrea’s lips as he replaces Andrea’s hand with his own, his fast jerks on Andrea’s cock mirroring Andrea’s earlier movements. They’re not kissing anymore as much as just breathing against each other’s open mouths – it’s not nearly enough to muffle Andrea’s soft moans.

Andrea’s hand finds its way up to Pippo’s face – it’s the same hand that’s already soiled with Pippo’s cum – and he strokes his cheek blindly, spreading the mess all over Pippo’s beautiful, even if lined, face. Pippo turns his face just enough to kiss the tips of his fingers, tongue flicking out to taste the sperm on his skin.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Andrea gasps out – the feeling of Pippo licking his fingers probably shouldn’t be as erotic as it seems right then, but he can’t help himself – and then he comes too, pushing his cock heavily into Pippo’s tight grip.

They catch their breaths for a while, leaning against each other. Neither of them seems to have enough energy to stand on their own feet, so Pippo just rests his weight against the wall, and Andrea leans on Pippo, their arms wound around each other.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Andrea can feel Pippo’s fingers threading through his hair – he certainly hopes it’s the hand not covered in his cum, but his brain is refusing to cooperate, so he can’t be sure of anything – and then it seems Pippo actually finds his voice again, “Well, fuck. Are we really gonna do this?”

Andrea lets out a low chuckle and leans his forehead against Pippo’s shoulder. “Might as well. It’s not like it can get any worse, right?”

“That all you have to say?” Pippo’s hand in his hair is not stopping its gentle caresses, even though his voice is teasing. “Damn, I feel so _wanted_.”

Andrea only hums noncommittally – there will be a time for the _talk_ , and he intends to tell Pippo just how wanted he is; but that time is not now, not when they have a party to get to – and he pulls away from Pippo’s embrace reluctantly.

There’s a patch of drying seed on Pippo’s cheek, and his trousers are still hanging down his thighs; it makes Andrea break out in a wide grin. Pippo looks ridiculous. Andrea probably does too. This whole thing is ridiculous, really.

“What’re you laughing at?” Pippo snaps with a grin of his own. He wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, but the stain remains. It makes Andrea laugh just that much harder.

“I really did miss you, you shithead,” Andrea finally manages to tell him, and then he reaches out to wipe away the cum with the tissue he finds in his pocket when he pulls up his trousers. “It’s gonna be better this time. I promise.”

The smile Pippo gives him in return radiates warmth and affection. It’s the kind of smile Andrea wishes to see every day from now on – especially when it’s directed at him and no one else.


End file.
